Earlier in the week, when they asked me where I might like to go for my birthday dinner, I replied, “Surprise me.”
They hate it when I do that.
So this is after a long week.
After Karry’s long Saturday shift.
After I came down with a cold earlier in the day that left me a leaky, and mostly miserable, cauldron.
After getting dressed for a nice, though not fancy, birthday dinner.
After arguing in the driveway about whether to make the long drive into the city in the rain or just cancel the reservation.
After loudly debating whether we were in any shape to even enjoy a nice meal in our diminished states.
After Karry got behind the wheel to adjudicate the decision.
After I barely said a word from the back seat the whole way in, sulking.
After we found an open spot on the street.
After Peter, without a word, went around to the back of the car and fished out the umbrella he’d retrieved from the garage before we left, and did this ….
This is after I, unconsciously, slowed my walk behind them, even though it was raining harder than when we’d left … just so I could soak it all in.
After thinking of the Japanese art of Kintsugi, of repairing broken pottery by mending the areas of breakage with lacquer mixed with powdered gold, which makes the piece beautiful because of its cracks.
A son, holding his umbrella high, to shield his mom from the rain.
I’m not sure why, but this just melted me. For some reason, it made every bit of everything that came before worth it. Maybe even all of the past 53 years.
This is me in my diminished state, after receiving the best birthday gift I am not capable of even wishing for — the gift of bearing witness.
“Surprise me,” I said.
And to think, I almost let it slip through the cracks.
Early evening last Saturday, Peter and I are heading out for a bite to eat (he twisted my arm for Benihana, forgetting that it is self-twisting on the subject).
Leaving the neighborhood we make the left onto Park Avenue. Where I catch a glimpse of a young lady in exercise attire walking along the left side of the road.
I register the sight of her just as she does the most remarkable thing … she shoots her left fist up and punches straight into the air.
And I see a smile break wide across her face.
Catching her in a moment of some spontaneous affirmation.
I don’t know if she’s watching something on her phone, or listening to something in her earbuds, or just alone with her thoughts … but my heart immediately fills at the sight.
To be more scientifically precise, her heart fills mine.
Because I recognize the act. I know that exact feeling.
Sometimes when I’m taking my (very) slow laps over at the track (which sits directly across the street from where she was walking, on the back side of the high school), my mind also often goes for a jog, wandering and wondering. And sometimes (not always, just sometimes) it encounters a spark. A thought. A connection. Sometimes an idea.
Or sometimes if I’m listening to music while huffing around the track, a song kicks in that, even if I’ve heard it dozens of times before, I hear it differently … or, maybe I’m just in a different space when I hear it, and it resonates with where my head or heart happen to be, and turns its skeleton key in some lock, and opens up a new door.
It’s the most magical thing when it happens. I think it only happens when I’m moving because the security guards in my brain are having to focus on keeping the machine in motion, which allows my thoughts to roam unsupervised on their playgrounds.
But when these moments happen to strike, I can’t help but shoot my left arm in the air in acknowledgement, in recognition. It’s like an autonomic response.
And a smile will invariably break across my face. Often, I’ll affirm the feeling with an audible, “Yes!”
A spontaneous amen to the heavens. In grateful receipt of whatever form or shape the gift takes.
The feeling comes outta nowhere. The ‘arm shoot’ … I do it without thinking. Immediately after I’ll remember where I’m at and look around to take inventory of anyone else around me whose attention may have been drawn by the freak who seems to be running a race in his head that he just won. I can’t imagine what others might think.
All I know is what I thought when I saw that young lady on the side of the road. I found myself wondering what it was that made her say her Amen. That brought her such spontaneous joy on a late Saturday afternoon. Had I not had two hands on the wheel, I would’ve proly shot my arm up and out the window in solidarity, in gratitude for her letting me know that I’m not the only one who does such things … and maybe to let her know that she’s not the only one, either.
I have a playlist that I consider my sorta’ “In Case of Emergency or Existential Crisis, Break Glass” Playlist — which in practical terms is also known as “Pete’s Everyday Playlist” (ahem) — in which an encore entry is Morgan Harper Williams’ Storyteller (if you are not familiar, MHN is an “autistic artist” [her term]/author/creator/advocate and just an absolute light in this world). The song always reminds me of so many good things, of Grace … of all the things that have accounted for my being here. Always of Mom and Dad, too.
It never fails to fill (or re-fill) my cup. And invariably, by the time me and Morgan make it to the line, “So this is me telling this story over and over again,” one of us has our fist in the air … and also some glorious fucking tears, and is unapologetic on both accounts, even (or, more precisely, especially) when one of us is taking our Sunday evening laps around the track.
Full disclosure: if anyone caught me in the act at that moment and called me on it, I’d gladly pause (I usually need a break at that point in my jog, anyway [ha]), and would tell ‘em all about it. About Morgan. About Dad. And Mom, too. How they and a whole bunch of Grace “brought the pieces together, and made me their storyteller,” just like Morgan says.
In our pressing against the world around us, sometimes the most capital “C” Cup-filling thing is just to stumble upon or bear witness to something or someone that reminds us that we’re not the only ones, that we’re not (totally) crazy, and that joy is always a lot closer than we think.
It can take so many forms … a kind thought from the universe that we allow into our heads, a song that’s always been there, but catches us like a dog whistle if we tune our ears to just the right frequency, or just a random encounter with a total stranger that we may never meet … say, a young lady out for a walk on a Saturday afternoon.
Reminding us to keep our doors cracked open a bit, our eyes and ears wide, our antennae up, so that we can know it when we see it, so we can call it by its name, and, if we are so moved, to raise our fists to the heavens and say yes to it.
So to the young lady out for her Saturday early evening walk, I just wanted to say thank you … from a fellow traveler.
For the first 95% of my time to date wandering, mostly lost, around my very teensy patch of this planet, I’ve abided an unwavering animosity towards cats.
For the most recent 5%, which I’ve spent in a complicated reexamination of my lifelong animosity, I’ve exercised a monk-like restraint to not be The Guy Who Talks About His Cats … at least while I’m in, you know, complicated reexamination mode.
While I can’t say I’m on the other side of that process, I am here, this day, to be The Guy Who Talks About His Cats.
This is Viktor.
This is Viktor in the act of practicing mind control on weaker species.
Viktor is my dude.
Even though he can be a major a-hole. Even though I’m not entirely convinced he’s not secretly plotting my demise, although I can’t technically prove it in a court of law … yet. (Sorry for all the negatives there … an unfortunate side effect of the complicated reexamination process).
And by “my Dude,” I, of course, mean that he deems me his dim-witted, servile underling barely worthy of the honor of catering to his every whim.
Viktor along with his brother Roman are the ‘cats who live in our house.’ While I’ve done almost a complete 180 on my cat stance (let’s call it a ‘178’), I still stop short of calling them ‘my cats,’ … since I was not involved, or, technically speaking, consulted, in the circumstances that resulted in them taking up residency in my house. And since my own residency here is, shall we say, vaguely tenuous, I abide a general strategy of not rocking the boat wherever possible.
I’ve come to appreciate Viktor over the course of our cohabitation because he’s the only member of the household who will indulge me in long conversation.
Everyone else seems to be, you know, pretty busy.
But Viktor and I … we are kindred spirts. Cut from the same cloth. We’re what the historians call ’deep thinkers.’ We feel the weight of the world, sense the shifting of the cosmic sands. We know what the Powers That Be are up to. We call out the bullshit when we see it. We know when the forecast calls for melancholy. We like it when human beings scratch our heads.
I’ll often find Viktor sitting in the dining room, staring out into the backyard, and can sense his mood.
A typical exchange:
Me: How’s it going, Viktor?
Viktor: (continuing to look straight ahead) Reeeeuhhhhrrrr! (“The universe is a meaningless void.”)
Me: Yeah, I know. Things are f*cked.
Viktor: (turning to address me directly) Reeeeeeeeeahhhhhrrrrrrrr! (“We must find those responsible and make them pay.”)
Me: Yeah, what can you do, though?
Viktor: Reeauh! (“Exercise my plan for world domination and reign in power with The Queen Who Gives Me The Special Snacks.”)
Me: Oh, there is that, I suppose.
Viktor: (turning back to the window) Urrrrrreeeeeeuhhh! (“Make no mistake, you will be the first to be eliminated, Sparkle Fart. Leave my sight for now Viktor must scratch things and nap.”
Me: OK, sounds like a plan. Good talk.
I’m the only one he talks to like this. We chat all the time. Actually makes Karry jealous.
That said, our relationship is not all unicorns and world domination.
Viktor can be a real a-hole.
Case in point. Ninety-nine percent of the time, he shows zero interest in physical exertion.
Until I’m working from home and he knows I’m on a call.
Then, he’ll bat the tinkly ball down the steps and work on his ball handling. Smacks it off the walls, chases it down, launches it back across the room, whacks it into the corner. Whines incessantly when it goes under the shelves just out of his reach. Until I hit the mute button, and be like, “Viktor, what the f*ck?”
He pretends he doesn’t hear me.
And when he knows I’m on a video call? It’s like he’s training for the goddamn Tinkly Ball Olympics. Speed drills and sh*t.
Oh, and there’s this other thing. Despite the fact that Karry has placed multiple cat accommodations of every type (blankets, pillows, beds, etc.) in front of virtually every window in every room in the house, Viktor insists on sleeping in my chair.
Because he is a passive aggressive motherf*cker.
When I call him out on it, sometimes he’ll open only one eye for a couple seconds, then close it again while I’m still yelling. I’m convinced that sometimes he hops in the chair when he hears me coming, and only pretends to sleep. I swear I can see him chuckling to himself. Karry tells me, oh no, he’s just ‘dreaming’ and to leave him be.
Despite the fact that dozens of blankets and pillows have been allocated for his comfort in practically every room in the house, he insists on sleeping in my chair because he is a passive aggressive motherf*cker.
VikTurd.
Eventually, though, his conscience gets to him, and he’ll apologize later … bowing his head and rubbing it against my shoulder. (translation: he gets hungry and knows he needs my opposable thumbs to open his adorably tiny can of cat food).
Of course, I forgive him, which is probably due to his mind control over inferior beings, but in my head is due to my unwavering support of his career aspirations. It’s Viktor’s dream (right after the World Domination thing) to become a calendar model. He puts in the work, has logged the 1,000 hours, practices his poses all the time. He’s a natural. Like the all-time greats, when he’s on his game, the captions just write themselves.
You think this is impressive? He knitted the goddamn scarf himself.
All he needs is representation. But in the cutthroat, big business world of cat calendars, it’s all who you know, evidently.
And Viktor’s not one to kiss anyone’s ass to climb the ladder of success. Not interested in playing The Game. He does not truck with The Machine. He is a master of the long game. I think he knows that once he subjects the universe to his will and reigns supreme over time, space and dimension, he can, you know, get some head shots taken … shop ‘em around, etc.
That’s probably the biggest thing that I’ve learned from him.
Mercifully (for me), this year, proceedings returned to their normal rhythms. Held at the respective studios. A two-day affair. Saturday = Waynesburg. Sunday = Washington.
This year called for less desperate measures, leaving Karry and Emma to tag team this, their 12th edition of the annual amalgam of yelling, hair, make-up, costumes, and teenage angst.
Preparations began weeks in advance. Came home one day to find Emma outside in the driveway with a pair of tap shoes and a can of neon pink spray paint.
“Don’t ask,” was all she said.
My Karry radar began ringing in my head.
Me: You’re taking precautions, yes?
She: I’m not making a mess if that’s what you’re asking.
Emma has convinced herself that she rarely, if ever, makes messes.
Her conviction is strong. She’d probably pass a lie detector.
In truth — and I say this lovingly — she’s a disaster.
He just brought it home one day after work and presented it to me. No set up. Not born of a previous request or conversation.
The Glove.
Reggie Jackson model, waffle-pocket Rawlings. The Finest In the Field.
Said he’d bought it from an acquaintance. Some guy he knew from the store. Paid $25 for it, used. I remember him feeling shrewd about the deal.
It was huge. The finger holes were like catacombs. My 10-year-old digits barely reached.
And, oh, it was really used. The traditional method of breaking in a glove is to place a baseball in the pocket and tightly tie the glove closed with string so that you preserve a sweet spot for the ball. The Glove must’ve been given a Swedish Massage and then placed, empty, under the tire of a dump truck. Its pocket folded over its fingers like pages in a book. Its leather soft and pliant. It was so broken in I could clap with it. What padding it had was massaged into sweet surrender (presumably by the Swedes). But given that my fingers barely filled 25% of its real estate, padding wasn’t really relevant to the equation.
A couple weeks ago Karry was violently cleaning out out the dining room, rooting through old drawers, filling garbage bags with stuff she didn’t want to think twice about. Of the two of us, she is, by far, the most qualified for the task. My wife is not the sentimental type. I, on the other hand, ensure that my wife will always have drawers to clean out. But in the midst of her editing, something gave her enough pause to seek me out downstairs. She tossed an envelope on my desk. “Yeah, you probably forgot about that one.”
On the outside of the envelope, my handwriting:
To: Peter
From: Dad
Christmas 2001
Inside, a letter. From me to my baby boy. Days before our first Christmas together.
Buried treasure.
I have no recollection of doing this.
Which is exactly why I did it.
I learned quickly during those eight months that time was no longer to be fucked with. From the moment Dr. Bulseco announced, “It’s a Boy,” we became unwitting passengers on a turbo steamroller, and would spend as much time under it as in the cab.
So, early on I made a point to mark time whenever I could steal a moment. Scribbles in a journal. Postcards from the road. Notes on a computer.
Letters for Maggie 