As Plain as Black and White

Although it is no longer my obligation, after decades of customer service experience it is second nature to identify a person’s need and see if you can help.  I may be cleaning the building, but while wearing the library crest, people will respond to a gentle question, such as, “Can I help you find something?”

The willingness to do that helped me get my position at the library, as a practitioner of the custodial arts.  They wanted people that would be willing to reach out to patrons that seemed otherwise lost.  For years, the plan worked without a hitch…until last winter.  Yep, I was identified as a racist.

I was doing the last rounds on the building before I went home for the day, a quick check of the facilities to make sure that there were no shortages in supplies or messes that needed immediate attention.  I was minutes from punching out when I noticed a woman bent over an unresponsive water fountain.  The fountain was equipped with motion sensors that would cause the water to flow when there was a sustained change in color…except for black.  When the sensors see black, they assume that the library is in darkness (as it would be after closing time) and do not send a signal to the spigot.

I was just trying to help.  From ten feet away, as I scanned the lady’s restroom for problems, I blurted out, “The water fountain doesn’t see black.”  When the thirsty soul turned around to face me, my blood turned to ice.  The woman in question was African-American, the lines on her cheeks telling me she was at least old enough to remember when there were separate water fountains for blacks and whites.  The lines around her squinty eyes asked, “What did you just say?”

I knew I’d meant no harm.  I charged ahead, hoping my confidence equaled wisdom.  “Your jacket,” I elaborated.  “It’s black.  The sensors think that it’s dark in the library, so…”

She cupped her hand in front of her mouth, stifling a giggle.  Waving a cocoa-colored hand in front of the sensor, the water gushed in a high arc.  Once she had drank her fill, she walked past me with just a finger in my direction, not a middle one, just an index pointer to say, “Yeah, I got you.”

For weeks after our initial contact, we passed each other in the library with just a nod or a wink in greeting.  It was more than a month later when she stopped me with a hand on my forearm, thanking me for the softer tissue that had been placed in the rest rooms.  I hadn’t had time to thank her for the compliment before she walked right by, saying in her wake, “You didn’t think I’d notice, did you?”

A week later, she told me that the bulbs in the ceiling above her favored reading spot had gone dim.  I let my boss know immediately.  Although the problem was a ballast and not a bulb, we fixed the outage in short order, restoring my new acquaintance to full light.

She and I are not friends…we still do not know the other’s name.  But we both are aware that sometimes, words don’t come out right…and that doesn’t make us racist.  It makes us human.

Ghosts in the Kitchen

An eerie feeling settled over our stove tonight.  I thought only I had sensed their presence, but I was wrong.

We have unseen kitchen help.  Often, when working on a recipe with more than three steps, I am forced to admonish my aide with words like, "Why did you add the flour before the butter was melted, Dumbass?

Yes, that's what I call him.  As I said, he's completely invisible, but he can make a mess of the simplest meal, and often does.  Should you be visiting some night for dinner and hear me shout, "Didn't you know that was hot, Dumbass?"...you'll know I just got a blister....and that Dumbass was there.

If we sit down to eat and there is no sour cream for the baked potatoes, you will know he was on grocery detail that week.  I'll be honest about it, saying, "I'm sorry about the spuds.  Some Dumbass did the shopping."

I was in the living room yesterday, while my wife, Miss Kitty, was making Christmas confections.  I heard her exclaim, "Didn't you save extra topping for after it bakes, Dumbass?"

I immediately ran around the corner and asked her, "Does he work for you, too?"

Today my daughter was home, whipping up a batch of cookies for her friends.  From the dining room, I heard her say, "All right, where did you put the vanilla, Dipshit?"

'Dumbass' and 'Dipshit'...I wonder if they're related.

What the hell...at least we're hiring for the holidays.

...and then it was gone

I was pushing a stroller on the sidewalk one day

When a sleek motor bike came roaring my way

An old friend was holding the chrome handlebars

Of a bike that cost more than both of my cars

It was brand new and shiny, the detailing extensive

But diapers and formula were awfully expensive

It made me feel sad, a little withdrawn

as it zoomed right on past, and then it was gone.

I was mowing my grass on a Sunday in June

When my old friend drove by in pick-up, ‘round noon

My jealousy bubbled, the bile just poured

The horsepower galloped, the engine, it roared

But there were school clothes to buy, the roof needed shingles

Besides, trucks were for those who were footloose young singles

I stood there and watched on my hard-scrabble lawn

As it zoomed right on past, and then it was gone.

I was painting the trim, my patience worn thin

When my old friend drove by with a new car again

A convertible this time, in bright cherry red

Every boy’s dream, some romantic said

Could’ve made it my goal, my personal mission

But the kids went to college and needed tuition

In the chess game of life I was merely a pawn

As it zoomed right on past, and then it was gone.

It was many years later, on a cold winter morn

My old friend walked by, looking sad and forlorn

I invited him in, to escape from the cold

I was shocked by his face, he looked haggard and old

“Not driving today?” was the salient question

He shook his head sadly at the very suggestion

“What happened to the Caddy, the Harley, the Benz?

Do you still have them, or have you sold them to friends?”

He answered, “I’d give you them all, if in trade

I could have the family and the life that you’ve made

I’ve said I loved cars as I raced ‘round a track

But not a damned one of them has loved me back.”

We tried to remember the days of our youth

The times when we weren’t quite so long in tooth

He exited sadly, refusing my assistance

He said he’d be fine, despite my insistence

He said, “Life seemed so simple, and so clearly drawn

as it zoomed right on past, and then it was gone.”

Carolyn's Legacy

Even when I was a young man, I always wondered what I might be remembered for when I’m gone.  In the five years before I turned fifty, I spent many hours with my creative palette, sharing the ideas and inspirations I’d dreamed up, writing and performing at every opportunity.  Is it possible that one role I took on inspired a youngster to take up acting? I pondered.  Could some set of words I’d written become a mantra for a lost generation?  Could it change a single life?  Could one of my punchlines become a private joke that never gets tired between two people?

Ultimately, of course, it’s not for me to decide.  It appears that you don’t get to choose your legacy, your legacy chooses you.  Hilariously, I’m recognized four times more often for playing Mark Twain on a web series called Soggy Jim than I am for playing Willy Loman in Death of a Salesman.  The play that has paid the most bills for me, Night of the Livid Dad, was written when I was nineteen.  It was about being a husband and father, two things I had not done at that point in my life.  So much for “Write what you know.”

I had a chance to see a person’s legacy reveal itself this past week when my mother had a stroke.  It was, thankfully, a mild one (an easy thing to say when it wasn’t me with difficulty walking and a crushing headache).  When she had stabilized and was ready to share with the world her excellent prognosis, I dictated a statement and took it home to place on social media.

I should explain at this point that my mother’s life was not always an easy one.  A third child, adored by her father and resented by her mother, she could rarely do anything to please the one who had given birth to her, as a youngster or as an adult.  Discouraged from reaching for the stars, browbeaten for having dreams, she coped, doing what she could to become her own person and still seeking the approval of one who was so stingy with it.  I won’t go into my late grandmother’s psychiatric problems…all of her life, she attempted to make every story center around her and today I will deny her that victory.

Mom had to fly by the seat of her pants, trying to be a wife and a mother when she’d been given a piss-poor example of same.  Giving birth to two sons, she had to learn, being the only woman in the house, how to be one of the boys.  To this day, she can still feign interest in wrestling, boxing and baseball when she would rather be watching a Fred Astaire musical.

She told my brother and me we could do anything we put our mind to.  While that wasn’t exactly true, it didn’t stop us from trying.  She was always there to cheer us on, exalting in our triumphs occasionally and certain that the fates would be different if we tried again at something we had failed.  When we were grown, we left the nest without backward glances, eager to try our new wings, positive that we would always have a place to land if the weather turned nasty.

If you’re as lucky as I am, there are those people you’ve known since high school (or before) that you check in with on occasion.  Social media has become a place where I see the disappearing hairlines and just-appearing grandchildren of people I’ve known for over thirty years.  Most all of them have been to the house I grew up in, many finding a safe haven from the chaos in their own adolescent homes.  Mom didn’t approve of many of the activities we were up to and was hardly shy about expressing it.  She also knew that we were better off in her basement, under her watchful eye, than out on the street.  She seemed to know when to pat us on the head or kick us in the ass and seemed to be aware of which ones needed it the most.

When I shared the news of my mother’s stroke, comments poured in, some from people I hadn’t heard from in years.  One guy, who rarely used the ‘L’ word with his first wife (and only occasionally afforded it to the Green Bay Packers) wrote, “I love that woman.”  When I looked at the posts and allowed my mind to go back to the old, smoke-filled basement, I saw it.  Carolyn’s legacy.

There were people who found the courage to walk away from abusive relationships.  A few that decided that they didn’t have to be wired on drugs to be funny.  There were those that decided to speak their mind, although it was going to make people angry.  Some applied themselves to school because of her counsel, while others decided they loved themselves, even though they were heavier than society thought they should be.  At least one decided to find their satisfaction in the Bible instead of the bottle.

And so, we see a life’s work unfold before us, a grain of sand at a time instead of a shovelful of dirt all at once.  It’s possible my legacy is sharing this story with you.  Perhaps yours, Dear Reader, is in sharing your story as well.  She didn’t set out to change the world, but she changed lives.  One heart at a time, she’s made the world a better place.  I aspire to her greatness.