House Call

     I just wanted to go home.  Kyle’s words stuck in my head.  ‘If she wants to call you back she will’.  Talos was gone.  Trudy was gone.  Derich was lost in his own pain.  V was half way across the country in her management orientation.

    I would just stop at the liquor store on the way home, get a bottle of brown sugar bourbon, and wash the night away.  In three hours I would be wrapped up in a warm fuzzy blanket on the couch hoping the spins stop so I could wake up the next day without a care in the world.

     The house that Trudy built was just a five minute detour off my hour drive home.  I had driven by the main road many times because of accidents or detours on 84 but I hadn’t stopped by in years.  

     The new plan was to hit the liquor store, get a bottle, stop by the house, pay my respects to the memory of Marrianne’s parents, and THEN wash the night away on my couch.  It was like something was calling me to the house and I had to be there.

     I looked up obituaries on my phone.  The funeral had been exactly one week earlier.  It seemed like Trudy lingered after the heart attack.  The site said Trudy was surrounded by Marrianne, her brother Charlie, and their respective families when she passed.  No wonder Marrianne had been reaching out but not picking up.  

     The GPS app said the trip should take 45 minutes, that included the stop at the store.  

     The highway was empty except for the memories and reflections.  I thought back to times spent on Marrianne’s porch before she headed off to college.  I  laughed about showing up a week late for her wedding and not realizing I was at the wrong wedding until they mentioned the name of the bride and the groom.

     I thought about the last three years.  Job loss, cash flow problems, and the fear that had woken me up nights.  These things all seemed so small and temporary.  I remembered Karen’s idea of steps rather than goals and tried to will away the worry.

     The two bottles I picked up at the store clinked together as I turned off the main road on to the side street.  I held on to them so they wouldn’t slide from the passenger’s seat to the floor.  The brown sugar bourbon was for later.  The small bottle of Jaegermeister was for the memory of Trudy. 

     I was caught off guard when I saw downstairs lights on and the small Subaru parked in the semicircular driveway.  My heart jumped when the Vermont license plate came into view.

      I parked next to the Subaru and slid the small bottle of Jager into my inner coat pocket.

     It took two rounds of knocking before she finally came to the door.  For a moment I thought she was going to, understandably, leave me out in the cold.  Though there had been a lot of sporadic texting and the occasional phone call, it had actually been years since I had seen her in person.

     “Hey,” she said quietly standing in the doorway.  Her eyes were red from crying.  Her silver lined curls were pulled back into a loose ponytail.

     “I’m so sor..” I heard the catch in my voice and felt the tears welling.  “I’m so sorry,” I finished, hanging my head.  “I didn’t know.  I was stopping by to pay my respects.  I didn’t know anyone was here.  I was going to do a shot of Jager on the porch then head to my house.”

     I felt empty and small.  I just wanted to go home.

     “Both of my parents are gone,” she said as she hugged me and let herself cry into my shoulder.  As much as I wanted to go home, something had called me to the house and I had to be there.

Sketches of Pain

    I looked at the sky and took a deep breath.  What was left of the grey day was fading into the early darkness of fall.  I could barely see my reflection in the driver’s side window of my car.  It was there, but it was a light sketch with no distinct details.

     “What’s up, Kyle?”  I said, my energy waning like the day itself.  “Marrianne’s been trying to reach out but we keep missing each other.”

     “I know.”  He said.  “She was trying to find out why you weren’t at the funeral.”

     “Funeral?!?”  I asked, completely perplexed.

     “We thought you were in hibernation.”

     “No. January.”  I slumped in the front seat and pushed deep into the headrest.  “What funeral?”

     “Trudy had a heart attack three weeks ago.”

     Everything stopped.  Talos had passed away years ago.  It had been a long messy battle with cancer.  As much as Marrianne loved Kyle, they had rushed the wedding in hopes they’d be married before he died.  Where I was a week late for the marriage, he passed away a month before.  He and Trudy had been married for 35 years.

     Talos never met Marrianne’s kids.  He never met her brother’s kids.  Her brother’s wife was four months pregnant when the world fell apart.  Since they had nothing Trudy gave them everything they needed to get started.

     She outlived Talos by eleven years.  She never remarried.  Her time was taken up by volunteering, light travel, an occasional ‘friend’, but mainly her grandkids.  She maintained the house so her kids could always come back to their roots when they needed to reset their lives.

     “Shit, man.  I’m sorry.  How are you guys?  How are the kids?”

     Silence.  A small voice in the background asked when Mommy was coming back.

     “I’ll tell her you called.”

     “Kyle.”  I heard the little voice in the background ask for Mommy again.

     “If she wants to call you back she will.”

     “Kyle?!?”

     “I’ve gotta feed my kids dinner.  If she wants to talk, she’ll call.”

     “Kyle, she did call that’s why I’m...”. The phone beeped off.

     I looked up through the sunroof.  Darkness had fallen.  There was no reflection, no details, not even a light sketch.

Power

     Never underestimate the power of fear.  Fear will keep you in relationships in which you don’t belong.  Fear will keep you at jobs you hate.  It will make you push the good people away.  It will tell you those people were too good for you but if they really cared they would fight to come back no matter what you did.

     It will keep you up all night mindlessly scrolling twit/face/insta/space.  If you do sleep, fear will wake you up at 5:00 in the morning with a lump in your chest worried about something that is out of your control.  Fear can also keep you in bed until noon because you feel like the world is too much, wants too much, and you aren’t good enough to get it back on track.

     When this level of fear comes knocking - not the polite ‘are you home’ kind of knocking but ‘the pirate with a wooden leg, it’s time to walk the plank’ kind of knocking - there are three things I force myself to do:

1. Get out of bed
2. Take a shower
3. Eat breakfast (this might just mean having a coffee)

     These three actions chip away at the polarizing, self-sabotaging, thoughts that can derail the rest of the day.  Each little accomplishment is a win.  Each win is a step forward.  Each step forward is a move away from where you were towards something else, hopefully a better direction.

     I looked at Derich.  

     “It’s fear, man,” I started.  “Fear will make you write the song you think they want to hear.  It will make you take the photos you think they want to see and it will make you write the stories you think they want to read, BUT it won’t make people listen to, look at, or read what you’ve created.

     “I tried to do things other people wanted and it was never enough.  There was always something missing.  When you are not doing things with your own best interests in mind you are doing yourself a disservice.  If you are not the author of your own story you are a bit player in someone else’s.”

     I looked at Derich and this time I tried, for the first time, to share my soul.

     “Bullshit.  You know what?  I’m happy you have an office gig again,” he said, dismissively wiping his chin with a napkin.  “That music thing?  The acting thing?  That writing thing?  Those are all kid dreams.  You’ve got a mortgage, a car payment, and credit cards.  We aren’t getting any younger...or thinner.”

     He was firing at close range with both barrels.  The words weren’t fatal but they were solid body blows.  The burger and the beer had lost their flavor and I had lost my appetite.

     This wasn’t a tough love tactic.  This was pain projection.  There was something ugly going on but I just didn’t care enough to dig deeper.  I felt my face wrinkle up as I reached for my wallet.  It was my turn to throw a $20 bill on the bar and head for the door.

     “I gotta go.”  I heard myself mumble.

     “Where?”  He asked as though there was nowhere I had to be and no reason for me to be there.

     Just then my phone rang.

     “Oh, hey, look at that.  It looks like somebody gives a fuck,” I said backing out the door.

     It was Marrianne’s home number.  Finally!!

     “Hey, buddy!  What’s up?!?  I’ve been trying to catch you for the passed month!”

     “What’s been so interesting this passed month?”  Kyle’s voice was flat and cold.  “Seriously?  Why do you keep calling my wife?”

     It was 5:00 in the afternoon and suddenly I had a lump in my chest because the world felt like it was spinning out of control and I wasn’t good enough to get it back on track.

Writer

     “Just because you write doesn’t mean you’re a writer,” Derich said after biting into his burger.  “I think.  I mean you write but has anybody paid you?”

     This was the first time in years I was relying on myself for money on a large scale.  Up until this point I had jobs with a decent salary and decent benefits.  The problem with those jobs is that they wanted you to put your head down, keep your mouth shut, do what you’re told, and don’t rock the boat.

     I hate boats and I’m really not good at keeping my mouth shut.  This is all was compounded by the overwhelming seasonal want to crawl away to a warm spot somewhere on this beautiful blue globe and wait out the winter.

    The burgers were delicious.  The best thing about them is that they were only $12.  We had found a hole in the wall burger place that had a Sunday special.

    You got a grass fed burger, tomato, lettuce, red onion, and cheese with hand cut fries, and a super stout (12% or above) for $12.  Bacon was an extra dollar.        

     No pictures for the Dinner at a Distance crew.  I did shoot V a message.  She had to check out this place when she got back from her management orientation, provided they hadn’t closed by then.  Nothing this good lasts that long.

     I rolled my eyes.  Today’s only saving grace was the tasty burger.

     “Man, let’s just enjoy the burgers.”

     “You know every time I ask you about things going on with you you just shut down.”

     The hard truth was no one was paying me to write or take pictures or play music.  Those days were in the past.  I was once again a guy working in an office and it was killing me.  This time I was working for a company as an independent contractor.  There was no salary, no benefits unless I paid for them myself.  Every dollar I got was a dollar I had to hustle for.  I’m not good at the hustle when it’s not what I want.

     As wonderful as it is to be a creative it’s also nice to eat and pay bills.  More power to you if you are able to be creative, do what you love, and pay bills.

     There was always the hope that there would be a magic bullet.  I don’t need to be rich but it would be nice to create something that brought in enough recurring income for me to relax a bit.

     We had a few ideas when we were younger.  One idea was to build a band.  We would get rich writing songs and gigging around the world.  That didn’t happen.

     Another idea was to write a book.  Everyone who wrote books was rich, right?  Not so much.

     The next idea was to be an movie or tv actor.  The idea after that was to be a photographer.  The next idea was to be a film or video editor.  The last idea was to be a YouTuber. 

     All of these ideas had one core problem, there was no joy.  The main goal was the money.  When I was chasing a dollar, the activities I engaged in to make that dollar brought me no joy.  Sometimes the quality of the work would suffer because I was only focused on the money. 

     “What’s up, man?” I asked.  “You’ve been in a shit mood for a few weeks.”

     “What the...” he started expecting the guy who would just quietly look in the mirror like I had done so many times before.

     “I get it.  You aren’t where you want to be, either.  I am actively trying to figure this shit out because for the first time the clock is ticking and I feel like I’m actually running out of time.”

     “God Damn it!” He said throwing down his napkin.  “When are you going to stop talking and start doing?”

     “I,” I stammered.

     “You yourself have said it, ‘if you really want to do something then do SOMETHING’.  If you don’t want to work in an office don’t work in an office.  If nobody cares about what you write then write about what people care about!

     “If nobody likes the music you like then write the music they like.  Take the photos they like.  Shoot the video they like.  Do all the things they like then slowly introduce what you like.”

     “You got lucky in the beginning.  You came out of nowhere and it seemed like you were ahead of the pack.  Well, the pack has passed.  Sitting and bitching about the fact that no one is sitting and bitching with you will get you nowhere.”

     I felt the release.  Suddenly the focus was clear and I held my head a little higher.  I knew what it was.  Fear.

     It’s amazing how clear things become once you see how cloudy they’ve been.  I was afraid.  This is how those office jobs keep me coming back.  I was so afraid of my own shadow I couldn’t get out of my own way.

     I had been floating on an air of delusion.  Delusion can be good but nothing this good last forever.

Mind Full

     The bar was unusually full.  I always try to avoid the bar when it is this full.  This was different.  Tonight felt strange.  I felt compelled to be there.  It had been a while.  The bottles behind the bar looked like they had been rearranged.  The mirror was frosted.  My favorite bartender wasn’t working.

     I slowly looked around to see who was out tonight.  Initially it was a sea of blank faces but as the fog faded everything started falling into place.  I saw Stotler, Paris, and Caitlin each sitting alone at small tables in the corners of the dining area.  The kid was there running back and forth between the parking lot and the kitchen.

     Kiki was standing in line waiting for the bathroom.  V was laughing with a friend whose face I couldn’t quite make out.  Terry was with her little one looking out the window while her husband parked the car.    

     D was settling up her check.  She had quietly paid everyone’s bar tab and was slipping out the side door before anyone knew what happened.  Tony and Amber were talking in a corner near a waterfall.  Their conversation was still light and airy.  Tessa waved from the next booth.  There were two drinks on her table.  Was one for me?

     I looked back to the mirror but it was still frosted.  I looked to the left and saw Linda and the current love of her life finally exchanging keys to the new apartment.  I looked to the right and saw Tony’s ex-wife Karen talking to Derich’s current wife Karen.  They were drinking what looked like cosmos and laughing with abandon.

     I realized I could see almost everyone but myself.  As I turned to do a final scan of the bar I saw her.  She still had a statuesque Victorian quality.   Her curls were pulled back into a rushed bun.  Her baby blues were sad with truth.

     “Marrianne!”  I almost fell off my stool.  “How are you?  I’ve been trying to...”

     “You poor broken man you,” she interrupted.  She touched my bearded cheek.  “It’s not hibernation, yet.  What are you doing here?  What’s this thing on your face?”

     I looked deep into her eyes and saw the reflection I had been longing to see in the mirror.

     “I...I,” hot tears started to well in my eyes.  “I got distracted,” I whispered.

     “It’s time to go,” I heard my father’s voice cut through the crowd.  Just as I saw his face clearly, the alarm went off waking me from the dream.

     “How the hell does this keep happening?”  I asked myself as I checked my phone.  I had missed another call from Marrianne.  It was the fourth miss this  month and the second miss this week.  No voicemail just a missed call.

     “Hey, kid.  I just missed you,” I started, happy that the voicemail finally was taking messages.  “What’s going on?  It’s been a while.  Call me.”  

Everything still felt strange.  My mind was unusually full.  I always try to avoid things when my mind is this full.

Goals

     “Having goals kicks the shit out of me.”

     “Then don’t think of them as goals.”  Since her kids were off to school and Tony was still seeing Amber, Karen and I would occasionally get together for pizza.  Her life was stable.  She wasn’t the breadwinner in the relationship but she was no slouch.  “Think of them as steps in the right direction.”

     “I try not to think of them at all,” I said getting as much cheese as I could on the slice.

     “We both know that’s not true.  ‘Fuck that place!’  ‘They pull these numbers out of thin air!’” Karen was puffing herself up to imitate my displeasure with my old job.  “You used to bitch about it all the time.”

     “Yes, yes I did but bitching about things is not the same thing as thinking about them.  Bitching is just a way to get them off my mind.”

     “You realize that makes no sense whatsoever, don’t you?” She said running a fresh block of Parmesan over a cheese grater.

     “Uh huh,” I mumbled. “Normally the circular nature of bullshit logic gets me out of these conversations.”

     She rolled her eyes.

     “Seriously, I’ve had some time to think lately and I’ve found that setting goals was part of the problem.”

     “Go on,” I said perking up.  Slacking can be nice.  Justified slacking is better.

     “People are always setting goals for themselves then find themselves disappointed when the goal has been accomplished or worst case scenario not achieved.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard, ‘Is this really it?’ Or ‘I expected more.’”

     “I’ve been there,” I said slowly grating some fresh parm onto my pizza.

     “That’s because you view the ‘goal’ as the end all to be all.  I found that if you look at it as a step or a stepping stone it’s easier to transition to the next step.  There’s always something else that needs to get done.”

     “I hadn’t really thought about it like that.  Lately it’s just been day to day.  I just kind of zone out.”

     “Maybe it’s because you’ve accomplished all the goals you thought you were supposed to and they didn’t get you what you wanted.”

     The machines skipped a beat.  “But I haven’t..”

     “You have a house don’t you?”  She asked.

     “Yes, but...”

     “You got the job at that firm, right?”

     “Yes, YES.. BUT that’s because a friend owns the firm,” I countered, my head spinning.

     “That got you in the door but you passed all those exams needed to keep the job didn’t you?”

     “Yes, but not on the first try,” I dropped the crust and clapped the crumbs from my hands.

     “You have the car you want, don’t you?”

     I felt a visceral twist of excitement in my gut.  It was like I was standing on the observation deck of the Empire State Building and looking down.  My mind was spinning.  For years I’ve spent time wondering why shitty things were happening to me while my subconscious was working to keep me on track.

     The machines fell silent.  

     “Even when you were with that job you hated...”

     “That hated me back,” I interrupted.

     “Whatever, even when you were with thatjob you were able to buy the house.

     “Maybe it’s not the goals.  Maybe the problem is your expectations of what’s supposed to happen once you accomplish said goals.”  She was ecstatic.  Her mind was moving at a million miles an hour.  She was getting rid of her pain by helping someone else get through theirs.

     “God damnit!”  I exclaimed, simultaneously realizing she was right and I had just eaten the last piece of pizza.

     “You had a theoretical term for it.  It was part of the hibernation.  Transitional, transposition,” she was snapping her fingers and staring through my soul.

     “Transformational Forward Movement,” I said feeling more weight leave my shoulders.  “It’s the reset.”

     “What would happen if you pushed it a little bit further than just a reset?  It seems like you’ve unconsciously been saving yourself from total destruction.  What if after you reset you took control of where you wanted to go?”

     The machines immediately started a slow, methodical whirring.

     “Maybe I’m projecting,” she said leaning back on the couch with her arms crossed.  “Maybe my goal should be to hibernate and reset, too,” she said shrugging her shoulders.

     “Maybe that shouldn’t be the goal,” I said, my head still spinning with possibility, “but it sure sounds like a step in the right direction.”

You’ve Got to Go

     I have my failings.  I remember one time in 1987 a friend and I were sitting on the floor, eating hot dogs, and watching football at his house.  This was a typical day for us.  We would go for a bike ride.  We would visit friends.  We would come back watch tv and eat hot dogs.

     This day his Dad came in after a hard afternoon working overtime, cracked a beer and sat down in his favorite chair behind us.  I wanted to share a little story my Dad told me about when he worked at a small company sweeping up before daybreak in the 60’s.

     He happened to work the night shift with a guy who used to play semipro football but got cut.  He would share stories with my Dad about the good times and the eventual bad.  He mentioned how he was cool with how things had worked out but my Dad could see that he was sad about not having gone fully pro.

     I tried to elaborate on this story and make it a funny anecdote.  “It’s so sad,” I started, “that some of these guys train and put in all their time to play pro ball on tv but are just one injury away from being some janitor.”  I was about to launch into my Dad’s story when I heard a deep sigh behind me.

     “Come on, man,” my friend said standing up.  “Follow me.”  I followed him up the stairs and to the kitchen where he held the door for me.

     “You’ve got to go.  That food you were eating, that tv you were watching, and the house you’re sitting in were paid for by some janitor.  Right now you aren’t worth the trash he picks up.”  I dropped my head in shame and quietly walked to my bike.  I have my failings.

     Sometimes I think I’m funny.  I remember sitting in Carmella’s place after a lazy Sunday in 1989.  The thought was have a quick dinner at the house then possibly catch a movie.  She was a beautiful Sicilian girl who was dating a friend of mine.  We were just catching up before she headed off to college.

     Her Grandfather, who had brought the family over from Sicily, and her Mom were both sitting in the room while we were finalizing plans for the evening.

     “So what are your plans for my granddaughter?” He asked with a thick Italian accent and a raised eyebrow.

     “Well she’s headed off to school in a few weeks so we figured we’d hang out one last time.  It’s not like we can go on a date or anything.  You guys are from Sicily.  That’s like a hard swim from Africa.  There’s a strong possibility we’re related.”  I felt the slick smile cut across my face.  Carmella hit me on the shoulder.

     He looked me dead in the eye for a solid 10 seconds.  He slowly stood up and walked around the corner to the home office.

     “Tania!”  He yelled.  Carmella’s Mom walked into the room and closed the door behind her.  She came out with a half smile on her face.

     “You’ve got to go,” she said rolling her eyes.

     “I figured as much,” I said laughing to myself.  “Give me a call before you leave, Ella.”  She hit me in the shoulder again.  Sometimes I think I’m funny.

     I am not the worst.  

     “Oh shit!” Rob said.  “I told her I’d pick her up by six.”  He was knee deep into setting up the sound system for a show that was supposed to go on later that night.

     “If you’re lucky,” I said looking over loose cables, the soundboard, and stacked up amps, “you’ll make the eight o’clock sound check.  There’s no way you can pick her up and get all this together before the show.”

     “Could you pick her up for me?  I’ll give her a call and let her know you’re on the way?”

     I had dropped him off at her house a few times and she lived across the street from a kid I used to jam with so I knew exactly how to get there.  I took her number just in case.  It was a thirty minute round trip.  Tops, I would be five minutes late getting to her house.  She would be pissed because he had broken another promise but she could see my beaming face.

     We found a pay phone in the lobby - it was 1991 - and I let her know I was on the way.  I gave the phone back to him and laughed as he tried to whisper I love you before he hung up.

      I pulled into the driveway and ran head down to the front door.  Her father answered.

     “Hello, sir,” I said with beaming gig energy.  “I’m here to pick up Dee.  Rob got wrapped up putting the sound system together so he asked me to pick her up.”

     “I’m afraid she’s not here.  Ahh, in the time since you called she got a ride.”

     “Oh cool!  I guess I’ll see her at the gig.”

     As I turned to walk away I could see Dee clear as day through the large plate glass window.  She was sitting on the couch with her head in her hands.  I felt a hot confusion roll over me.

     I drove across the street to my friends house to use the phone.

     “Hello, sir.” I said with a shaky voice.  “I was just there to pick up...”

     “She’s not here!”

     “But sir, I saw her sitting on the...”

     “I said she’s not here!!  And even if she were she wouldn’t be riding in a car with no fucking n*gg*r!  You’ve got to go.  Don’t bring your n*gg*r ass back on this property.”

     The words cut through my chest like hot steel.  I couldn’t breathe.  The rest of the night was a daze.  Later Dee and Rob apologized.  Apparently she forgot that her father was a card carrying racist.  There were so few ‘other’ people who live in the area that it just slipped her mind.

     Sometimes I think I’m funny.  I have my failings but I’m not the worst.

Plates

     I remember buying my first set of plates.  I had one little rinky-dink plate I always used for grilled chicken and steamed veggies.  I was working at a small department store in a former factory town.  Most people’s goal was to have their own apartment so they could do what they wanted and not be under the thumb of their parents.  I just wanted a nice plate set.

     At this point college and I decided it was best to see other people.  It would see students who would show up and do the work and I would go out in the real world and try to do the work that allowed me to live the life I wanted to lead.  Since the factory closed down I took on the only two jobs that would hire me locally - grocery store clerk and stock boy at the department store.

     These were transition jobs.  Most of the kids were either home for the summer or making the jump from college to the real world.  Since the factory had shut down small department stores, grocery stores, movie theaters, and restaurants were the only things keeping transition kids around.

     The real money jobs were an hour away in either Stamford or Hartford.  Hartford was all about insurance.  Stamford was the gateway to the financial corridor that led from Fairfield County to Manhattan.  The actors and musicians were headed to New York or Los Angeles to make their dreams come true.  Other people made the decision to go to Boston where you not only had a combination of insurance and finance, theater and music, you also had a strangely constant view of the Prudential building.  Everyone was struggling to get on their own two feet.  

     I just wanted plates.  In the summer of 1992 I found them.

     It took an entire summer to afford the set I had my eye on.  I knew from the moment I saw them that they were what I wanted.  They were non microwave, hand wash only, bone white with a silver ring fine china.  There were 4 dinner plates, 4 soup bowls,  4 bread plates, 4 coffee cups and four saucers for the coffee cups.

     In my mind having a set of plates also meant you had a place to put them.  You had friends over to break bread, share dinner, and serve coffee.

     After a long work week in Stamford or Hartford you would pull out the good plates and have a party.  When people came back to visit from New York, LA, or Boston you would laugh, cry, and lament over the experiences they shared while using the good plates.  Having plates meant you had a place for them.  Having a place for them meant that there was a place for you.

     The box they came in was so heavy with possibility.  I remember the first time I opened it to make sure no plates were broken.  I remember putting it in a safe place so when I finally moved into my own space this would be the first box I grabbed.

     For the next 22 years the box moved from one side of the pantry to the other.  The jobs got better but they weren’t quite good enough to let me lead the life I thought I was supposed to lead. Three times the box was almost given away as a either a wedding gift or a housewarming present.  Twice it was almost donated to charity and once it was almost thrown into a dumpster.

     The next time the box was opened was when I finally bought my first house.  I had settled on a quiet little area that was midway between Hartford and Stamford, and just a little bit closer to New York than Boston.  I remember loading the non microwave, hand wash only, bone white with a silver ring fine china into my cabinets.

     That night I celebrated by eating grilled chicken and steamed veggies on a rinky-dink plate.

The Sad Story of Marcus Rivers

     “I saw Walinda Rivers at town hall the other day,” my Mom said as I loaded groceries into her refrigerator.

     “Oh wow!” I replied, completely surprised.  After the incident with Marcus, the family couldn’t get out of town fast enough.

     “How she doing?”

     “She’s good,” Mom said exhaling deeply.  “She asked about you.  Wanted to know how you’re doing.”

     “What brings her to town?”

     “She said she was looking for old property records.”

     “How’s Marc?”  I asked wanting to get to the main question right away.

     “According to her he’s all right.  He’s living a quiet, simple life.  He has a good job.  Keeps to himself.”

     “Understandable,” I sighed. 

     Twenty years ago Marcus went on a date that would change his life forever.  When they had a “chance” meeting at the coffee shop on a Wednesday at 2:30 while he finished his usual coffee nothing seemed out of place.  Unbeknownst to him she had stalked him for about a month.  It was found during a subsequent investigation that she was involved in an abusive long term relationship fueled by infidelity and cocaine.  She would lash out at her long term partner by sleeping with other men she knew he found unacceptable and harbor that little secret.

     Their first and only date was a short hook up that ended in a gross miscalculation.  Her significant other came home sick from his night shift factory job to find that the focus of his abuse was out.

     When she returned home he attacked her again.  This time her boyfriend’s misogynistic, coke fueled rage was brought to an almost homicidal level when he realized she had slept with the man right next door.

     Her injuries were so severe that the next day she was taken to the hospital.  While her man stood over her with his hand intimidatingly on her shoulder they told the doctor that this wasn’t a domestic incident it was, according to him, the results of a nasty encounter with a neighbor.  

     Due to the nature of the assault the state police were called.  I, unfortunately, was there when the officer interviewed Marcus three days after the hook up.  The accusation of assault by a white woman was the manifestation of every black families fear. 

     Marcus had a few things working in his favor.  The first thing was a diligent investigator.  Rather than a jaded officer who just wanted to clear a file from his desk, the trooper wanted to get to the actual truth of the matter and look into both sides of the incident.

     The second thing was the history.  As the officer looked into both parties he followed the nuanced truth rather than the easy path.  His investigation found the aforementioned history of drug use and physical abuse.                   

     The couple’s history spanned five years and eight states.  They had lost two children to the department of children and family services.  There were a list of misdemeanor arrests for shoplifting and breach of peace.   

     Marcus had a history of promiscuity and ghosting on girlfriends.  The officer found that even though he had been a shitty boyfriend there was no history of violence or assault in his previous encounters.  Even some of the girls he had ghosted didn’t have anything horrible to say about him.

     The third thing was that the doctor, who had experience with domestic violence counseling, had the impression that the couple’s story was suspicious.  She listed off each of the signs she recognized that pointed to this as a domestic incident.

     The inquiry lasted just under a month.  Marcus was not charged but by the time his name was cleared in the incident he had changed.  The outgoing, friendly, well dressed person who was easy to laugh was replaced by a withdrawn, disheveled recluse.  

     We tried to stay in touch but it was a lost cause.  Walinda would always warn my brothers and I that this could happen to us.  She would tell us that we couldn’t get too comfortable in this area no matter how big the smiles or how firm the handshakes.  We had to stick together.  The rest of the borough was a different story.

     Any trust he and the family had in the town were shattered as “friends” stopped calling and a whisper campaign tried to undermine the vindication provided by the police probe.

     This continued until the couples pattern repeated itself five years later on a much larger scale.  The local newspaper did an exposition on the couples exploits of the past ten years.

     “People are trash,” Marcus would say on the rare occasions when you would see him out.  He had taken to hibernating away from the world.  His trust of people had been shattered.  He no longer trusted his judge of character.

     “Maybe I deserved this,” he would then say.  “Maybe I should have treated some of my exes better than I...” he would trail off, lost in reflection.

     And so was born the hibernation.  He would disappear for three to four months to rest and reset.  He would spend time purging his frustrations through exercise and meditation.  By the time spring started he would reappear, guarded but refreshed.

     “Did she say where they were living,” I asked already knowing the answer.

     “No.  She said it was good to see me but she couldn’t really talk.  She wanted to get in and out.”

     I finished loading the perishables and close the refrigerator.  “I’d love to hang out, Mom, but I think I’m headed out.”

     “Understandable,” she said as I gave her a kiss on the cheek.

      After being reminded about the incident with Marcus I just couldn’t get out of town fast enough.