Miami Plus Three Months

I am a fan of symmetry. Maybe it’s my math background, I don’t know. But I find a certain beauty when things appear to fit.

Don’t worry; this is not a story about gay marriage.

In looking through the 151 stories I have written on this blog, I noticed some symmetry. Back in 2009 when I first moved to Orlando I wrote a story about how awestruck I was with the town. Then, three months later, I wrote a more grounded, yet still positive, story about where I was with the Orlando Experience. Earlier this year I moved to Miami and wrote a similar awestruck story. I have now been here three months.

Time to true up the symmetry.

Three months seems to be a good barometer. The initial excitement and confusion about living somewhere new should have subsided, replaced by familiarity and reality. This is definitely the case with my Miami Experience. So what have I learned about my new home during this time? Well…

Let’s start with the obvious. You do not hear a lot of English spoken here. Spanish is the default. You sometimes have to make a concerted effort to find someone who speaks English, especially in places like Little Havana or Westchester. My closest Walmart is in Westchester, and the last time I was there all I heard was a constant stream of Spanish. In fact, when I need assistance finding something and approach an employee, my first query is, “Habla Ingles?”

And as I mentioned in my last story about Miami, this does not offend me. I don’t grumble about the fact there is an American flag flying outside yet English is the secondary language. Because Miami is a young city; a hundred years ago it was little more than a swamp. About fifty years ago, Castro came into power in Cuba, which triggered the first exodus of Cubans to Miami. Thirty years ago the Mariel boatlift occurred, depositing 125,000 of Fidel’s Finest here. And since then, other Latin America countries have become noticeably represented here – Colombians, Venezuelans, Nicaraguans and so on. And what do they all have in common? Spanish.

So what is occurring here is a generational thing – the elderly speaks Spanish. Their offspring, folks around my age, are bilingual. Much like the Little Italy section of New York. And like New York, Miami is truly an international city. Which leads to my next observation –

The food here is outrageous. Whether it’s Ropa Vieja at Versailles on Calle Ocho or Arroz Con Pollo at Kokoriko in Brickell, it’s all good. Real good. Or, I should say, muy bueno. And the people here are proud of their heritage and are very friendly. As you can imagine, especially among the older Cubans, there is an inherent joy in being somewhere where speaking your mind does not land you in jail. As such, these folks like to celebrate.

But there are instances which makes me truly feel like the minority that, well, I am. For example, FM radio. It sucks. But then again, it reflects the demographics of the area. Ninety percent of the stations are Hispanic music. The other ten percent is classic rock or sports talk. So you choices are bonga-bonga-bonga arriba te amo, Led Zeppelin, or Dan Lebatard.

Well, I don’t care for salsa and I am burned out on Zep. Dan, by default, wins.

Which is a good segue to something Miami is also know for, its sports teams. I just worked the Miami Heat celebration parade. It was attended by 400,000 people. Now, being a native Ohioan, having been born in the same town as LeBron James, there is a personal grinding of my teeth to see the Heat win championships. As I have found out, this is a view held by most people who live outside of Miami. But in Miami? They don’t care. In fact they take it a step further – they don’t want to hear it. If you are upset about the Heat cherry-picking elite players from other teams, keep it to yourself. They know the rest of the world doesn’t like it, and that just gives them more resolve – hate us, as if we care. World champs, muthafucka.

There are a couple of other minor, yet infuriating aspects of living here. Why does it cost twenty freaking dollars to get my car washed? Where are the coin-op self wash places? Why does it cost SIX BUCKS to park at a county park?

But those are easily dismissed for the far more important positives of being here. I have assimilated into an international city where I am proudly a minority (and a 54 year old white boy from the Midwest is definitely a minority), the beaches are awesome, the women are beautiful (a product of mixed bloods), and I am happy.

And you likely would be too if you lived in Miami.

So if you want to only be around white people who speak English, stay in Iowa. If instead you want to experience how the rest of the world lives, c’mon down.

But download Rosetta Stone first.

Delayed…But Not Denied

So I just took a dip in the pool at my apartment. Sounds pretty boring, right?

Well, it was. Thank goodness.

I need a good dose of boring. The last three months were beyond crazy. I cannot recall a similar stretch in my life where more things happened in such a short period.

Let’s rewind to February 6^th of this year. On that day I resigned from my position with a firm in Orlando to accept a similar position with a firm in Miami, knowing that would trigger a number of required activities like relocating.

At the same time, I knew my mother was in the advanced stages of dementia, so I was debating whether to even tell her this news, for fear of whether she could even wrap her atrophied mind around it. On Sunday February 17, I called her to tell her the news. She didn’t answer the phone.

Two days later, she passed away.

Now, the plan was for my last day at work in Orlando to be that Friday, February 22, to start work in Miami on March 11. Two weeks and two days. Plenty of time to find a place in Miami, get my stuff down there, relax a couple of days, then hit the ground running at my new job. With mom dying, that was all tossed out the window. Obviously I had to get to Ohio for the funeral…but that was my last week of employment. So on my way out the door to head north, I handed my employee badge, tears in my eyes, to my boss & told her, “I guess this is it.”

Fortunately, they extended my employment a week, to March 1, so I could take care of things in Ohio. That was extremely nice of them, but it did not change my start date in Miami. Now my two weeks between jobs was truncated into one. The result was my moving plans were scuttled and I ended up in a hotel in Homestead instead of a condo in Brickell. For my first two months of employment in Miami, my commute was a surreal combination of driving, bus ride & rail ride – over an hour each way. And this was on top of learning a new job with12-hour days. During the period I basically did three things – work, eat and sleep. There was no time for anything else.

In late April I was able to find a nice apartment in South Miami, with move- in mid-May. This triggered my moving activities, with multiple 500-mile round trips between Miami and Orlando to get my belongings. I finally finished that on May 19.

Whew.

This whole time prevented me from normal activities related with losing someone’s mother. Like grieving. I was too busy. In one aspect, that’s good. I was perpetual motion, too many things on my plate to simply sit back and reflect.

But finally, last night, I did. I sat in that pool at my awesome new apartment in Miami, took a look around the beautifully landscaped area, let out a deep breath, and thought ‘I made it. I did it.’

I then thought about my mom.

And I cried my eyes out.

That was way overdue.

The Way It Is

Having now lived in Miami for a couple of months, I have discovered that what a lot of people know about this area is true. You don’t hear a lot of English being spoken here.

And here’s my thought on that – so what?

I can hear the Bubbas now – “This is AMURRICA! We speak ENGLISH here!”

Well yeah, with a decisively ignorant accent.

Look. We are a nation of immigrants. And if you want to really get down to it, the ‘native’ language of this country is whatever the Sioux or Senecas were speaking 400 years ago. English was imported here from, well, England.

Yes you heard me. English is a foreign language.

But it is also what was taught to us as children. It is the accepted form of communicating in this country, and is certainly the dominant language of our nation.

But not in Miami.

And I realize this pisses off a lot of people. Many avoid this area as a result. Which is too bad for them, as this is an entrancing place loaded with local flavor and multiple cultures. Miami isn’t just a city with a bunch of Cubans. There are Venezuelans, Colombians, Brazilians, Puerto Ricans, Virgin Islanders, and so on.

But yet, the ignorant among us want to avoid them and decry their insistence on speaking in their native tongue. And I dare say, it is these same ignorant people who, when traveling to Europe, insist the French or Italians speak English to THEM. After all, we are Americans, and damn, we are full of ourselves. It’s almost as if we are saying, “We are armed to the teeth & can blow your little country back into the Stone Age so don’t tell me I have to learn your language.”

And we wonder why other countries hate us. They love America, but not crazy about the Americans inhabiting it.

But anyway. I took Spanish back in high school. Four years of it. But given that was 35 years ago, obviously I have forgotten much of it. My vocabulary is probably a hundred or so words, but I can fluently state to someone of Hispanic descent, “Yo hablo solamente un poquito de Espanol, porque yo aprendo en la escuela…many years ago.”

They then smile at me and we proceed to have a nice conversation…in English.

Because here is what the Bubbas don’t understand – these people know English too, at least the vast majority of them do, and the ones that don’t, you can still communicate with them.

See, here’s the lesson, kiddies. You can communicate without using words. Verbalizing sounds is but one way to communicate.

So here I am in Miami with very limited Spanish at my disposal, and I can tell you I am not at all at some kind of communicative disadvantage. I get along just find, gracias.

And I can tell you my Spanish vocabulary is, obviously, growing. It is inevitable in a place like Miami. But do I feel irritated by this? Do I feel resentful that I have to try to learn a language in a place where the stars and stripes flap on a flagpole?

Not at all.

And why not?

Because it’s fun. It’s what makes Miami Miami. And it exposes me to new cultures, new activities…not to mention some totally hawt Hispanic babes. And by speaking a little Spanish to them, you know what happens? Their faces light up and they smile.

See, I am more about trying to ingrain myself into the culture of a place instead of dogmatically insisting they conform to me. By having that attitude, new vistas open. And here, with over sixty percent of the population being of Hispanic descent, the city and all its charms open up to me.

But, if you want to insist everyone speaks English, stay in Iowa. Because no matter how many laws are passed, no matter what efforts are instituted to homogenify everyone into only one form of communication, it will never work. They will still speak Spanish in Miami.

And I have no problem with that.

Home Sweet Home…stead?

They say home is where the heart is.

Lately, my heart’s been freekin’ everywhere. I was born and raised in northeast Ohio but have lived my adult life in Florida. For the past four years my residence was Orlando, which I became quite fond of, but I recently took a job in Miami. But I don’t yet have a permanent residence in Miami. Instead the temporary place I’ve been resting my head is Homestead, Florida, in an extended-stay hotel.

A hotel room. In Homestead.

So that’s where my body is. Where’s my heart? Hell if I know. I am still only two months removed from my mother passing away, so part of my heart is with her. Ohio will always be special to me, another piece is there. My son lives in Jupiter, he gets a chunk. And I left Orlando begrudgingly, as I became quite attached to a place most of the world knows for its mouse ears & overpriced buffets. So O-town owns a piece too.

So while I am still sorting out the postal codes my blood-pumping organ resides, I want to talk a bit about where my carcass presently calls home. Homestead.

Look on a map. You will see that Homestead is waaaaay down south, right next to Florida City – the last two vestiges of civilization on mainland Florida, the gateway to the Florida Keys. To the west are the Everglades, to the east, Biscayne Bay. Ground Zero for Hurricane Andrew’s landfall in 1992.

And my temporary home. I took up residence here to get started with my job in downtown Miami, which is 35 miles away. Economics drove the decision – things are much cheaper down here than in Miami. In fact, about the only thing Homestead has in common with Miami is they share the same county.

But that’s it. Homestead ain’t Miami. At all.

Homestead is a cool amalgam of small town & old Florida. It’s primary sources of economy are agriculture and the nearby Turkey Point nuclear power plant. It seems to be a close-knit place, and the locals like where they live – they seems to reject the ‘big-ness’ of Miami and revel in the fact that they have nothing in common with their huge neighbor to their north.

The people. They’re an interesting bunch. Every Saturday morning I have breakfast at the local restaurant – the Royal Palm Grill on Krome Avenue. And you want an example of the old Florida I speak of? The Royal Palm Grill is embedded within a Rexall drug store. Yep, Rexall’s still exist, and this particular one has sundries on one side…and the local’s favorite restaurant on the other. Retro-cool.

The Royal Palm Grill is teeming with local character. Virtually every time I have breakfast at the counter, I engage in conversation with whoever is next to me. And I have received phone numbers from these folks who insist I call them for a quick trip to Key Largo (which is only 25 miles away) or a round of golf.

And then there’s Star – the aging, self described Hippie. Star is one of the servers at the Grill, and she is, most of the time, a blur of motion. I would guess her to be in her early 60s, and this morning, as she was racing past me, I said to her, “I bet when you get home you pass out.”

That stopped her in her tracks. She turned to me, walked over and whispered, “I have MS, and the way I figure, if I keep moving it can’t catch me.”

Rock on, Star.

She then sped on to fill a cup of coffee and deliver some toast.

When she returned to my vicinity, she decided she earned a five-second break and told me, “I treat my MS homeopathically. Acupuncture and herbs. I’m a Hippie! I was at Woodstock…I hitchhiked there!”

And off she went.

So after breakfast I decided to take a drive around town. Homestead actually has a downtown, a quaint five-block stretch of

Mexican restaurants and an old movie theater. To the west you can see the flat expanse of open farmland. Along Krome Avenue are old-school hotels. Things move slower here, and there is palpable feel of real community – something Miami sorely lacks.

I needed to run some errands, and one of the places I needed to stop at was the local U-Haul, as in two weeks I will be moving from my hotel room to my apartment in South Miami. My time in Homestead is nearing an end.

And that actually made me choke up for a moment.

Looks like Homestead now owns a piece of my heart too.

Today, Random

Leave it to Facebook to provide me inspiration for a story.

A couple of days back I was perusing the ‘News Feed’ – posts from my Friends, and one bugged me – it was a pic of Shirley Temple and Honey Boo Boo side-by-side, with the caption “What has happened to this country?”

Setting aside whatever political statement the poster was trying to make (which I still don’t know and don’t really care), the inspirative thought hit me –

Why do people romanticize the past at the expense of the present?

Now sure. Some of it has to do with nostalgic recollection of days gone by. And certainly I have no problem with that line of musing. I do it all the time, especially when I see an old friend – “Hey remember when we were in high school and that night with those twins? Man, those were the days…”

Okay, there was no night with twins. Roll with me here.

What I am referring to are people who embellish the past at the expense of the present; people who think things – or they – are worse off now than then. Now add to it the future, and these people have some grave, apocalyptic Mad Max vision of how things will be, both for them and for society.

And some of my Facebook friends apparently can divine all this from pics of Shirley Temple and Honey Boo Boo side-by-side.

Well, here’s the truth. The past was not as great as you remember it, the present isn’t as bad as it appears and the future is not going to be a mega clusterfuck.

Why?

Because life is weird. It’s random. It is, literally, unpredictable in the most literal sense – nobody can predict what will occur based on what has occurred. And definitely not politicians, so remember that in the next election cycle.

Let’s take my friend’s Shirley Temple example. Apparently his message was that things were much better in the 1930’s than they are now.

Really? Millions of blacks who did not have the right to vote and could not attend schools with whites would beg to differ. Polio sufferers would have issue with that. And that guy in Germany who had visions of a ‘master race’ was plotting his plan.

Okay, I win that point you say. But what about on a personal level? “I miss the good old days!” you cry.

Well, cry all you want, but you are suffering from selective recall. You remember the good but conveniently forget the bad. Let me use the one subject I am an expert on, myself, as an example. It is very easy for me to sit here and talk about how ‘wonderful’ things were in, say, 1983. I was 24 years old, had just moved to Florida, I was meeting a lot of girls and living a very carefree lifestyle. But I was also dirt poor, my car broke down every other day, and was living with three other guys in a house with no privacy…and no air conditioning. In South Florida.

So yesterday was no picnic. Now, let’s go to today, and let’s stay on the personal level, because opening that discussion up to the global levels brings in politics and world events and all kinds of stuff that will get us off message. What is going on in your life right now can either be looked at positively or negatively. Your choice. There is good and bad going on – nobody has a shithole/no positives existence and no one has a utopian/everything is perfect one either. We are all in that muddled middle of good and bad.

But here’s the thing – it’s all temporary. None of it will last. So remember that when you are hitting a rough patch. It will pass. But, that also applies to the good times - those too shall pass.

So it’s all in how you look at it.

I hear you now – “Gosh thanks Dr. Phil.”

Whatever. But it truly is all about perception – your perception and your life.

Now, the future. This one is simple. Who the fuck knows? Nobody. And I caution you from drawing conclusions of the future based on current conditions. Why? Re-read that paragraph about it all being temporary.

So, what’s my point in all this? Simple. It’s all up to you. I’ve seen happy people who don’t have a pot to piss in, and I’ve seen unhappy people in mansions. It’s all about perception. And one of my favorite phrases is, if you have one foot in yesterday and the other in tomorrow, you are pissing on today.

Carly Simon said it best. These are the good old days.

MY-ami

Those who are regular readers of my blog (both of you) surely recall a few years back when I waxed on about the city of Orlando after I took a job there. I wrote a couple of stories about how my preconceived notions of a town that I thought was all about Mickey Mouse were erroneous. I discovered a real city amidst the assumptions. And I thoroughly enjoyed my four years there.

Well, new job, new city. Bienvenidos a Miami, Gringo.

MIAMI? City of surly locals, riots, Pork and Beans, and optional English?

Well there you go. There were my assumptions about the place as I packed my car and headed to my extended stay hotel on March 10 to start my gig here. To hear tell, the first things I needed to do were to get my concealed weapon permit and a Spanish/English translator.

Wrong.

As it turned out, the first thing I needed to do was find a way to get to work without driving. Because the traffic is insane here. Fortunately for me, since my career is in public transit management and Miami has an excellent transit system, that was relatively easy to figure out – an express bus to Metrorail, then a 20-minute train ride to my office in Overtown.

OVERTOWN? Where they had the riots?

Yes. In 1989 some locals overturned some cars and set them on fire in response to a police officer being acquitted in the death of a black teenager. In 1989 we also still had the Berlin Wall and Wham was making records. Shit, for that matter, I was still married.

Ancient history.

‘Hey Jer, I watch the First 48. They’re always talking about the Pork & Beans area of Miami. Isn’t the city basically a huge ghetto?’

In a word. No. In two words, hell no. Does Miami have its ‘hoods? Of course. I would not dare venture to Liberty City (where P&B is located) after dark. But for that matter, nor would I go to East Cleveland, the Joy Park section of Akron or Tamarind Avenue in West Palm Beach after dark either. Point being, every city has ‘hoods. But for some reason Miami’s are somehow more notorious.

But for every Liberty City I give you Coconut Grove. For each Hialeah I give you Coral Gables. For each Overtown I give you South Beach. There are good and bad areas. And after two weeks and asking a bunch of questions of the locals, I am figuring out which is which.

The next assumption of Miami: Everyone speaks Spanish.

This, I will admit, is true. And not just because the Mariel boatlift in 1980 deposited 125,000 of Fidel’s finest in the city. But it’s really due to Miami being the Capital of the Caribbean. I have met many Cubans. But I have also met Venezuelans, Colombians, Peruvians, Puerto Ricans, Guatemalans and Nicaraguans. It is truly an international city, the gateway of the Americas.

But here’s the thing people won’t tell you – these same people SPEAK ENGLISH TOO. If one approaches you & starts spitting out Spanish at you, just say ‘No habla Espanol,’ and they will say ‘Oh…’ then will converse in English. Yes, the assumption is the default language is Spanish, but they know English. And for those xenophobes who decry, “This is AMURRICA!” realize these people know that. That’s why they learned English, Bubba. To date I have had no problems communicating with, well, anyone.

Even when I order my daily Cuban coffee from the diner downstairs. Or, Colada, as they call it. Let’s talk Cuban coffee for a moment. It will be a fast moment, for once the caffeine from the extremely strong, extremely sweet nectar hit your central nervous system, you will chatter out incomprehensible jibberish.

YOU will be speaking a foreign language too. Bienvenidos a Miami, caffeine junkie.

This is a very interesting, mesmerizing place. You can see anything here. Last week I took a drive to Miami Beach, to Collins Avenue in the heart of South Beach. In the span of three city blocks I saw a beautiful young woman in a skin-tight neon bathing suit and a Hasidic Jew dressed in all black. You can see someone blatantly stealing a flat-screen from a house in Allapattah or a Frenchman selling baguettes on a street corner.

Yes, Miami is, to use a quickly-tiring phrase, off the chain. Sometimes it moves too fast. Which is easily rectified –

Drink a triple-shot Colada. That will get you up to speed.

Urbanista

Crazy month.

Exactly one month ago today I was in my final week of employment in Orlando, having accepted a position with Miami-Dade Transit, scheduled to begin on March 11. So the “plan” was to resign effective February 22, with a two-week respite before cranking it up on South Beach. I had contacted realtors and had some money set aside to fund my move south.

Then my mother passed away on February 19.

Whoops. So much for that plan.

An emergency trip to Ohio and a funeral on February 22 extended my stay in Orlando one week, which reduced my time between jobs to one week. In Orlando on March 1, be ready to rock in Miami on March 11. And the money I had set aside for the move? Had to use that to get me & my brother to Ohio to say goodbye to mom.

Money well spent.

But it also meant my plans for a killer bachelor pad in South Beach turned into an extended stay hotel room in Homestead. Ain’t gonna be rubbing elbows with LeBron any time in the near future. More like buying vegetables from Jesus on Krome Avenue.

But it’s all good. That’s what makes life fun. Remember, life is weird. And it cannot be predicted. Can’t really even be planned for. I had meticulous plans for this Orlando-to-Miami relo that got snuffed out when my mother took her last, long breath.

But I made it. I’m here in Miami, in my second week in my new job.

And I love it.

Not just the job and the people (which are both great), but the city. Miami is the shit, yo.

Now. I will let you in on a little secret. I am a closet Urbanista. When I took the job in Orlando, having moved there for Port St. Lucie, I had visions of being an uber urban hipster. I was going to get a place near my downtown office and either walk or take transit to work. As it turned out I found a place in Altamonte Springs and was essentially forced to drive to work. Well, I could have taken transit, but it would have taken 90 minutes to traverse 9 miles.

I ain’t that hardcore.

So. Back to Miami. As mentioned, I had to go to my fallback plan of living in Homestead instead of Brickell. But…Miami ain’t Orlando. Translation: traffic is insane down here. Yeah I know it’s bad in O-Town too, but this is a different world down here. Transit isn’t an alternate, green way to get in touch with your inner environmentalist around here. It’s a way to maintain your sanity.

And sane I am.

Every morning I catch an express bus that operates on a dedicated busway that parallels US 1 to the Dadeland Metrorail station for a 20-minute whisk into downtown. A 35-mile commute in just over an hour.

Let me repeat that: A 35-mile commute in just over an hour. To downtown Miami. You literally cannot drive it faster…let alone what you have to pay to park downtown.

Oh, and it’s free for me. Cuz I work for the transit system.

Jealous yet? No?

Then drive on with your bad self.

For me, it’s awesome. I have re-familiarized myself with my ipod & various websites as I peruse and rock out while someone else deals with traffic. My blood pressure is lower, my spirits higher.

And my wallet’s fatter.

I work in downtown Miami and live 35 miles away. And I never set foot in my car to make the trip. What about lunch, you say? What about needing my car during the work day?

Dude, we got Metrorail that runs every five fuckin’ minutes to take me to Brickell. And an automated People Mover that sallys around the downtown high-rises. Transit rules here. And I am taking advantage of all of it.

I am finally an Urbanista.

Coda

It’s over.

My mother passed away last week, two day’s shy of her 86^th birthday.

Those of you who knew my mom knew how she was. Those who didn’t were unfortunate. Now sure, that is an easy thing to say, but it’s also true. I have never met a more selfless person in my life. To the very end her concern was always about her children and others than herself. Whenever I asked her how she was doing, the most she would talk about herself was to say, “I’m tired, son,” and then would ask me how I was, or how my son was doing.

Mom had dementia, a disease I classified using the word fascinating. That seems a rather odd, clinical way of viewing what eventually took her life, but from my point of view it was accurate – a woman who humbly called herself a Bookkeeper but in truth she ran the fiscal aspects of million-dollar companies who could no longer manage paying her bills. It’s a heartbreaking disease, but I thought it fascinating.

So the suffering my mom went through is over. She’s rejoined with the love of her life, my father.

I wish that was where the suffering ended. Mine has just begun, as it has for my siblings. We are each in our own place with this, and our unfortunate reunion last week was far from nice and cordial. We each hurt, as we each are venting. Sometimes at each other. Feelings are very raw. Long-festering resentments exploded. Harsh things were said.

But I don’t care. That’s their shit. Our mother died – that’s what happened, and my purpose of writing this is not to call out my siblings. I have my way of coping and they have theirs. I wish them peace with this.

By my count this is the fourth story I’ve written about my mother. The first one was over four years ago when she was first diagnosed with dementia. At that time, in 2008, I said nah, she’s just getting old. Denial. Then next one was three years later when it was obvious she was fading into the black hole of dementia. We called in hospice and had her put into a facility – for her own safety. I mean, lighting her cigarette on the gas stove with her grey hair dangling way too close to the blue flame was proof enough for me that she could no longer care for herself.

So her final place of residence on this plane was a care facility in Kent. But last week, we took a nice step for her. On the funeral procession, from the church to the cemetery, we drove by her house. I know mom liked that.

How do I know that?

Because she spiritually re-entered that house.

How do I know that?

Because weird stuff started happening between that Friday afternoon and when I left Sunday morning. Things fell off shelves. The washing machine inexplicably started running. I heard voices. Now, before you think I’m starting to get dementia, I heard them – low mumblings, incomprehensible ‘chatter’, like a white-noise-like sound. But it was there. I heard it.

And I smiled. Dee was home.

And she can now leave whenever she damn well feels like it.

Dog And Butterfly

This past week I celebrated an anniversary, a rather unusual one, but nonetheless one I am proud of.

November 14 was my one-year anniversary of practicing yoga.

Like I said, kind of an unusual one. I’m sure some were expecting something of a more substantive nature; a marriage or the like. No, nothing like that. This one is far more impactful on my life.

I’ve written often about my yoga experience and my Yoga Hero, my instructor Lee. And she gets embarrassed when I do so. In the past I have professed my love for her…which embarrasses her. I’ve professed my deep respect for her empathic, gentle nature…which embarrasses her. Now that I’ve gotten to know her better, I understand why – she keeps saying, “It’s not me, it’s the yoga. Thank the yoga.”

I see that now. Much of how Lee is is due to what she has learned as a yogi for years. Now that I have a year I am seeing it. The message is starting to sink in. Being a practicing yogi does instill a feeling of strength and calm, of confidence and humility. Of other amazing dichotomies. I get it now.

But I still love and respect her. I gave her an anniversary card the other night, and I told her there are only two women in the world who I will do whatever they tell me to do with no questions asked – my mom and her. She laughed at that.

Lee plays music at each class. A delightful collection of songs which are upbeat yet calming. Music to contort to, as it were. One song that she almost always plays is Dog and Butterfly, by the band Heart. It’s a wonderful story about a dog seeing the butterfly floating above and wanting to try to fly, but alas, cannot, because he is, after all, a dog. Dogs don’t fly. But yet he still tries. He then rolls back down on the warm soft ground laughing as he tries -

See the dog and butterfly 

Up in the air he like to fly 
Dog and butterfly, below he had to try 
He roll back down to the warm soft ground 
With a little tear in his eye 
He had to try, he had to try 
Dog and butterfly

Dog and Butterfly.

Me and Lee.

In yoga I am that dog trying to catch that elusive butterfly. I see what Lee does with her poses and I really try to emulate them, every one of them. Like I said, I will do anything she tells me to do. But some of them I just cannot physically do - yet. But I try. And then I fall over on the mat. And I laugh.

There is no ‘right and wrong’ with yoga. By simply showing up you have already succeeded, since you have shown your intent and honor to yourself. It took me months to understand that, as I went through my Alpha Male phase of doing every single damn pose, and cursing myself for the inability to do them. I got frustrated. There were times I thought of quitting. But I never did. And I never will.

Like the dog chasing the butterfly.

It is in the dog’s nature, and it cannot be removed.

Thank you, Lee. 

And, just to keep you from being embarrassed, I also thank the yoga.

It Ain’t a River in Egypt

The people have spoken. This last Tuesday, President Obama was re-elected by over three million popular votes and, with the Florida results now in, by 126 electoral votes.

That’s the modern-day version of a landslide. Which, by the way, was what I predicted.

I’m not here to gloat. On my Facebook page the day before the election, I promised not to gloat after Obama won. All I asked for in return was for the Conservatives not to de-legitimize the results. He didn’t win due to voter fraud, Acorn, rigged Chicago polling machines. He also isn’t from Kenya. And I don’t care what his college transcripts say, Don. His intelligence is evident.

So the purpose of this post isn’t Obama and his historic win. Instead, it is some advice to the losing party, so that they don’t continue to lose elections.

Even as a Liberal, I have to admit America is a center-Right country. I wish it wasn’t, but me wishing for it won’t change that fact. America is a center-right country, with the emphasis on the word ‘center.’ Enter the party that used to reside there – the Republican Party. There was a time where they had strong convictions that reflect this center-rightness. Nowadays, they still have strong convictions, but not reflective of that reality. Which comes to my first suggestion –

Ditch the Tea Party. They are a vocal group emboldened by the results of the 2010 elections. I won’t get into my personal opinion of this group, as that would be a story unto itself, but let’s just say they are not representative of the overall electorate. For that matter, not even half of it. More like maybe ten percent of it. And that ten percent is the far right fringe. Republicans, anxious to be the party that represents them, slid to that fringe to cater to them, and they got their vote. Problem is, they lost far more votes than they won. In order to be a relevant party, Republicans must tell the Tea Party to take a hike; start your own party and see where that gets you. They then can nominate Michelle Bachmann as their candidate and the 90 percent of the rest of us can laugh at them.

Read on for some more common-sense ideas to return to relevancy.

Rich White Guys Isn’t a Base To Win Elections With. This presidential election was the first one after the Supreme Court weighed in on the Citizens United decision, which resulted in obscene amounts of money pouring in from outside, unidentified sources used to attempt to sway elections. Well, rich white guys have a lot of money, but all that money wasn’t enough to defeat Obama. For Republicans to rebuild a more winnable base, they must untie themselves from this money. I know this isn’t likely, but at the very least they should not take their marching orders from the Koch Brothers anymore. If the Koch Brothers want a party more representative of what they believe, they got enough money to start their own party. And this 'Rich White Guys Party' will garner exactly the amount of votes their demographic represents – less than one percent.

Which is a great segue to the next suggestion.

Expand Your Base. There is a very easy way to do this - Support Lilly Ledbetter & the Dream Act. These two bills, respectively, grant equal pay to women, and a roadmap to citizenship for children of illegal immigrants. Two common-sense initiatives that aren’t, as they would have you believe, fantasy stuff from the Left Fringe. They represent what women and Latinos want. Two groups, added together, are well over half of the electorate. If you don’t support those two bills, you are, essentially, kissing off any chance to win anything.

Govern. Lastly, those Republicans still in office have to understand how to govern. And the first rule of governing is compromise. Ideological rigidity may have gotten you into office, but it won’t get you any bills passed once you are in there. Realize that another party is represented there too. Work with them. Otherwise, your stay in power will be a short one, as those now-defeated winners of the 2010 election have found out. Defeating Democrats is a noble cause while you're running for office, but once you've won, you now must work with them. Understand the difference between campaigning and governing.

So there you have it, Republicans. If you want to stay relevant, it may be a good idea to listen to a bleeding heart Liberal for once.

Denial ain’t a river in Egypt.

Off The Fairway, Installment 2

(Writer's note: This is the second installment from my novel, Off The Fairway.)

Shakes was sitting on the butt end of the huge black staff bag that was lying on the ground and emblazoned with ‘Billy Edwards’ on the side. Smoking a cigarette, he nervously kept checking his watch. “C’mon B.E. You said nine o’clock. Don’t let me down again. Don’t let them down again,” as he peered over to the grandstand by the first tee that was starting to fill with patrons. Nine fifteen…9:30…9:45. This will be the last time he does this to me, thought Shakes, I got five pros begging me to bag for them and I’m sitting here waiting on this crackhead.

Finally, at 9:55, the black Buick roared into the parking lot. Billy stumbled out and motioned for Shakes to come over to the car.

“Yo B.E., we ready to do this?” said Shakes as he approached the Buick.

“Piece of cake, Shakes. But listen – go over to the player’s tent and grab me two bananas, a bottled water and some Tylenol. My head is killing me. I’ll meet you on the putting green.”

Shakes shoulders slumped, his fears realized about his man and why he was late.

But before he left, Shakes had a demand.

“Lemme see your eyes, B.E.”

Billy was wearing his signature wrap-around Oakleys, which he claimed were to protect his eyes from the harshness daily exposure to the sun could cause. What was closer to the truth was that they were to keep the world at bay. If the eyes were the windows to the soul, well by God, Billy was not going to let anyone peer there.

Except Shakes. Billy obliged by flipping up the Oakleys for Shakes’ inspection.

“You happy, Shakes?”

“Yeah, I reckon,” said Shakes as he handed Billy the putter out of the tour bag before placing it over his shoulder and trudging off in search of fruit and pain reliever for his man.

Billy made his way to the practice green. I should ditch Shakes, he thought, Motherfucker is like a goddamn wife and parole officer wrapped into one. Lemme see your eyes…who the fuck does he think he is? Then the rational voice kicked in. Let it go, Billy. It’s Sunday and you’re one shot out of the lead. Game face time.

Billy opened a brand new sleeve of Titleist ProV1s and dropped them onto the practice green. Starting with some six-footers, he ran three straight into the heart of the hole, retrieved them and repeated it two more times. Nine in a row. Good, the nerves seem okay, he thought. By that time Shakes had returned with Billy’s order – two bananas, three Tylenol and a bottle of water. Billy wolfed down the first banana, washed it down with a swing of water, downed the Tylenol, took another gulp of water, and put the second banana in the golf bag.

“Let’s see what swing I woke up with today, Shakes,” as they headed to the range.

Starting with half-swings with the pitching wedge, Billy methodically worked his way through his bag, hitting every other club - nine iron, then seven iron, five iron, three iron, 3-hybrid, driver, then half pitch shots with the sand wedge. Every shot was purely struck, each one with a soft right-to-left movement indicative of a tour pro draw, each shot landing within ten feet of the flag, taking two hops before dutifully spinning backwards. The man is amazing, conceded Shakes.

“Okay Shakes, what time is it?”

“Ten thirty-five, B.E., we’re up in fifteen minutes.”

“Good. Let’s hit some more putts.”

Going back to the putting green, Billy, using only two balls this time, worked on his lag putts before ending with ramming in ten straight four footers.

“Let’s do this,” said Billy.

“Ladies and gentlemen…” barked the announcer on the first tee, “This is the final twosome of the day. Now on the tee, from Orlando, Florida, Freddie Phillips.” The gallery exploded with applause interlaced with hollers of “Go get ‘em Freddie!”

Phillips, a rail-thin but wiry six-foot, 165 pounds, acknowledge the crowd, placed the ball on the tee, took two practice swings, then unleashed a screaming hard draw that started down the right edge of the fairway before gently curving towards the heart of the short grass, 290 yards away.

“Now on the tee, from Las Vegas, Nevada, Billy Edwards.” The applause was also loud, but not with the same ferocity as for Freddie. Not that it mattered to Billy. He was in his zone. “He got The Look” as Shakes would say. “You could drop a screaming chicken next to Billy, but if he got The Look, he won’t even know it’s there.”

Billy teed his ball, stood behind it with ‘The Look’ as he picked out his target. Left edge of the right bunker. Commit, was the only voice in his head at that moment. That was why Billy loved playing golf. The voices were silent when he was inside the ropes.

The ball cracked off the clubface with the unmistakable ‘Whhhhhh…SLAPPPinnnggg’ sound seemingly reserved for only the best players in the game. The ball started exactly where Billy visualized it, left edge of the right bunker before gently moving about ten yards to the left; the same draw that Phillips put on his drive. With one exception – on the second bounce the ball leapt past Freddie’s drive and galloped out about thirty yards beyond. The gallery responded, first with the awe-filled ‘ooooh’ sound then with applause then with screams.

“Go get him Billy...Way to Ronstadt him!”

Billy gave a glance over to Freddie as if to say, Get used to hitting first into the greens today, Cuz. It will be Blue Bayou all day, in confirmation of the Ronstadt remark from the gallery. Billy then strode confidently down the first fairway with Shakes three steps behind.

The final round of the Show Me State Open was underway.

¨¨¨

“Let’s talk about your family,” said the counselor.

“My family – you mean my ex-wives or my biological family?” said Billy.

“Your biological family, your upbringing. I want to know what kind of life you had growing up.”

“Oh okay. I didn’t want to talk about those two bitches anyway.”

“Hold on…two bitches? Your exes?”

“Yeah,” said Billy. “The first was an immature kid who used me to get her green card and the second was a gold-digging cunt.”

“Do you always marry women who aren’t right for you, Billy?”

“Fuck you.”

“Maybe I will fuck me, Billy. Anyway, your biological family. Parents, siblings. Tell me about your childhood.”

Billy let out a deep sigh and thought, What the fuck does this have to do with anything? but he knew the only way he was going to get keep playing the tour was to endure this loser social worker who makes about the same amount in a year that he makes finishing in thirty-fifth place in a given week. “Okay. I’m the youngest of four. My dad was a plumber and my mom an accountant. I grew up in Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio, right outside of Akron, a very middle-class upbringing. No real trauma that I can recall.”

“Did anyone in your family have a drinking problem?”

“Yeah, my dad. He worked hard and drank hard. I can’t blame him, though. He put the food on the table.”

“Well that’s good. It seems you put blame on your ex-wives enough as it is.”

“Fuck you.”

“Anyway, let’s talk about your dad. He drank a lot?”

“Yeah. He got sober when I was thirteen. Hasn’t touched it since.”

“Interesting. How did he do that?”

“He went to AA.”

“How did that make you feel?”

“How did it make me feel? What the fuck kind of question is that? What difference does it make how it made me feel? My mom was threatening to leave him. He saw the writing on the wall. So he stopped. As far as how it made me feel, happy I guess. I mean he just wasn’t part of my life when he was drinking. I rarely saw him.”

“And after he got sober?”

“Oh, it was great. He was a golfer, and took the game back up when he got sober. He saw how my game was progressing and decided that we could make some money hustling on local courses. When I was fifteen we would go out to courses and my dad would set up money matches – him and me against a couple of saps. We would kick their asses and my dad would flip me a twenty for the effort.”

“How much did your dad make out of those matches?”

“I don’t know, maybe a hundred bucks or so.”

“So he was your pimp.”

“Excuse me?”

“He was your pimp, Billy. He used your skill to make money. He used you. Don’t you think it would have been fairer had he split the money evenly?”

“I suppose, but that wasn’t the point. He bought me my first set of clubs. He got me lessons with the local pro. I wouldn’t have made it to the tour without him.”

“My point, Billy, is that at a young age you were exposed to the idea of using people for personal gain. Doesn’t matter how you have processed it. I’m sure you loved your dad. But your dad used you.”

“I guess I never looked at it that way.”

“That’s why I’m here, Billy.”

“Fuc…”

“I know. Fuck me.”

Off The Fairway

(Writer's note: Over the past few months I have been writing a novel. The following is the opening excerpts.)

“Man, it’s hot,” Shakes said to Billy.

It was a typical Midwestern summer afternoon. Uncomfortably muggy. Air you wear.

Billy Edwards was toweling down his face for what seemed like the umpteenth time as he strode up the eighteenth fairway at the Bear Creek Country Club in Joplin, Missouri. On this Saturday, Billy had played himself into earshot of the lead in the Show Me State Open with a bogey-free six under par. He knew that one more birdie and he would post a very satisfying 65, which would put him one shot behind the leader and playing alongside him the next day with the title on the line. Right where I want to be, thought Billy. I can stare down Phillips, and then take him down.

Phillips was Freddie Phillips, three-time winner on the tour already this year, gunning for his fourth win and first-place on the Tour’s money list. The $800,000 first prize would all but assure that. Phillips was already in the clubhouse with an up-and-down round of two under 70. His four-shot lead at the beginning of the day could shrink to one if Billy could coax one more putt to fall.

As Billy approached the green the gallery reactively began to applaud. But it was not the typical enthusiastic swelling applause reserved for the, well, Freddie Phillipses of the tour. It was more of a courtesy applause given to a player who is not a fan favorite. Instead was a begrudging way to acknowledge a talented person doing their talented thing.

Billy recognized it. “Fuck them. I’ll get them back on my side,” he snarled under his breath as he doffed his cap to the crowd with a tight smile that more resembled a grimace.

He then turned his attention to his 18-foot birdie putt. With the assist of Shakes, his weathered, much-younger-than-his-face-showed caddy, they got the read down. Two balls outside right lip, cup speed. Don’t get frisky with it, die it into the hole. Billy went though his pre-shot routine permanently hard-wired into his psyche via rote repetition. Two practice swings. Deep breath. Place the Ping B-60 putter behind the ball; look at the hole, back to the putter, back to the hole, back to putter. Keep the head still. Swing.

The putt came off exactly as Shakes instructed; two balls outside the right lip of the hole. For the longest time it looked like it would stay like that, not taking the break but sliding by on the right. Then in the last three feet the ball, almost on command, broke hard to the left and tracked into the dead center of the hole.

“Like it had eyes,” said Shakes.

The applause was sudden, powerful. Billy gave his trademark fist-slam move, where he started his hand at his temple and brought it down hard and fast, as if he was hammering a nail. He let out a “Fuck yeah!” that was, fortunately for him, drowned out by the crowd. Retrieving the ball from the cup, he turned to the crowd, took off his cap, and mouthed a ‘Thank You’ as his playing partner finished out. Shakes came over and gave him a well-deserved hard handshake that Billy responded to equally. It was as if Shakes’ handshake was saying Great stroke, and Billy’s was saying No…great read, Shakes. Such was their relationship – one of mutual admiration and trust.

Walking to the scorer’s tent through a line of fans, most were supportive. “Great round Billy! Take down Freddie tomorrow! Billy Edwards is back!” But there were also a couple of wiseasses interspersed. “We’ve seen this before Billy…How you gonna eff this one up, Cuz?”

Billy was used to it all – the good and the bad. And besides, he was just trying to get to the scorer’s tent so he could post his 65, answer a few questions in the press tent then just relax. He signed his card and then took a look at the scoreboard that indeed confirmed he stood one stroke behind Phillips. He talked to a few reporters outside, and then decided he was going to hit the range for about an hour, take the courtesy car back to the hotel, order room service and get plenty of rest. Tomorrow was going to be a big day.

When he got to the range he pulled the cell phone out of his golf bag that had been shut off since before teeing off that morning. A few voice messages, a couple of texts. But there was one that caught his eye, and it totally entranced him –

Nice round. Gonna need anything tonight?

That was when Billy knew he had no chance to win the Show Me State Open.

¨¨¨

“Left turn…five hundred feet ahead,” intoned the cheerfully robotic female voice from the GPS on Billy’s courtesy Buick. “Your destination is on the right.”

Billy looked up to see a church built what appeared to be at least a century ago – Queen of Peace Catholic Church, in the heart of Charlotte, North Carolina. This is stupid, Billy thought, as he eased the Buick into a parking spot just as another thought hit him, No, you’re the stupid one. Just get this over with. Billy had a lot of voices going on in his head which created, at times, a cacophonous din which he pleaded to stop but could never make do so.

Getting out of the car, he referred to the meeting guide he printed off the website. Yep, this is the place. Next to the building stood about ten people who were smoking cigarettes and laughing. Fucking alcoholics with their chain-smoking, said the judgmental voice that seemed to be a permanent part of Billy’s chorus of cranial critics.

Attached to the meeting guide was a slip of paper that resembled an affidavit – I _____ hereby vouch that I attended the ____ meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous on this ____ day of ____, with a space below for a signature.

I should just forge this fucker and hit the closest bar, said the destructive voice. Dude, just do this. It won’t hurt you. Besides, Halsmith isn’t going to let you play this week if you don’t, said the rational voice. Fuck Halsmith, that paper-pushing hack who couldn’t break par on tour so he kissed ass to become tour commissioner, said the judgmental voice.  Hate him if you want, Billy Boy, but he’s got you by the balls, said the logical voice. Maybe I could call some guys who could fix this for me said the dope fiend voice.

            After all sides were heard from, Billy walked into the church.

“Good evening! Welcome to Alcoholics Anonymous!” chirped an obese elderly lady whose body resembled a bowling ball. Her hand was stuck out, demanding to be grasped. “Uh Hi…” mumbled Billy, as he shook her hand. “Where’s the coffee?”

“Why, it’s right around the corner, hon. Make yourself at home, and keep coming back!” Billy blurted out a “Yeah, okay” without taking the time to explain to the Human Ebonite that he was only here for the week, and he was about to put Charlotte in his rear-view mirror. The next stop was Memphis.

But first he had to take care of business if he wanted to see the first tee at Memphis. He had to get that paper signed.

The meeting began with a man who was probably in his mid-fifties but looked much older, pounding a gavel. “All right, let’s settle down. My name is Frank and I am an Alcoholic.” A dutiful chorus of “HI FRANK” resonated from the fifty or so people in attendance. A young man in his twenties read from a blue book. An attractive woman with way too much makeup read from a laminated document, “Rarely have we seen a person fail who has thoroughly followed our path…”

When she finished Frank then spoke, “Do we have any newcomers or visitors in attendance?”

Billy could feel the eyes move towards him even though his head was down. He was filtering through the various thoughts his cranial chorus was spitting out. Realizing the uncomfortable pause, he looked up and saw the eyes were trained on him.

“Oh, uh, hello, my name’s Bill…Billy.”

The pause continued. The group wanted more.

“Oh yeah, I uh, I’m an Alcoholic.”

That prompted some chuckles, the dutiful “HI BILLY!” and a couple of “Keep coming back” well-wishers. Billy’s mind went into hyper-drive. Fucking sheep, was the first thought that crossed his mind as he forced a thin smile.

Frank then spoke. “Okay. Welcome Billy. Now, does anyone have a topic for tonight’s meeting?” followed by another long pause.

What the fuck, thought Billy, Don’t these people have anything to say? You mean they get together in the piece of shit church basement and chant their shit, read their propaganda, then fucking look at each other? How in the fuck am I supposed to get anything out of this? What’s the fucking point of all this? When can I get this God-DAMN paper signed?

Frank then broke the silence. “Maybe our newcomer would like to say a few words,” as the gazes were trained back on Billy. Taken aback by the interruption to his stream of unconsciousness, Billy was not prepared.

“Uh, no, that’s okay. I am just visiting…”

Frank wasn’t satisfied. “Where are you from Billy? What brings you to AA?”

Tell this half-inflated basketball head to go fuck himself, said the angry voice in Billy’s head. Nah, make up some shit, said the egomaniac. Billy, filtering through all this, finally said “Uh yeah. I am in town for a tournament…a golf tournam…well, I mean, I’m not from here…”
“OOH! You’re a professional golfer?” asked Bowling Ball Lady.

“Yes. Yes I am. Anyway, you asked why I am here. To be honest, I am here to get this paper signed,” as Billy pulled the affidavit from his pocket. That elicited laughter from the crowd. Tell these inbred yokels to jam it up their ass sideways, said vindictive voice. Calm down, keep your cool, said inside the gallery ropes voice.

“Ah, the old nudge from the judge eh?” said Frank.

Billy looked puzzled, and then he got it. “Oh, uh no, It’s not like that. Commissioner Halsmith is making me attend these meetings in order for me stay on the tour. Last month I withdrew from a tournament in New Orleans because I was…”

The group had turned their collective attention towards Billy and he realized it. He was about to say he was arrested for attempting to buy cocaine from an undercover cop, showed up the next morning for his 7:43 a.m. tee time, played the first nine holes in six over par and was forced to withdraw by the rules officials.

“…Because I was hung over.”

Two days after the arrest in New Orleans Billy got a letter from Commissioner Halsmith’s office, informing him to be at his office that Tuesday. It was at that meeting that Halsmith gave Billy one more chance, informing him that he had the authority to suspend him from the tour, or to banish him outright. He could have told Billy to go make his living over in Europe – there was no room on this tour for a player with the issues he has. But Halsmith didn’t do that. Instead, he required Billy to go through counseling followed by regular AA meeting attendance. He also made it clear this was the final chance. One more questionable tournament withdraw, one more outburst, one more report from any volunteer at any event that Billy was anything but totally professional and you can try to scrape out a living on the Australasian Tour…if they will have you.

Billy got the message, kind of. Like a good addict he knew when his back was against the wall and that it was time to fly straight. So the outbursts stopped. But Billy had found another way to feed the beast, and it was a brutally simple one. Just play bad. Purposely miss the cut. Not that he could do that forever, but he had enough money in his bank account to last at least a year out on the tour. So what if he bagged it a couple of times? Guys miss cuts all the time.

So here he was in Charlotte, at an AA meeting, trying to explain to people he didn’t know why he was there.

So he lied. Billy was an expert at lying.

Frank thanked Billy for sharing and then turned to the group. “Okay I think we have a topic for the meeting. Let’s talk about denial.”

Denial?!? thought Billy. Was that some kind of slap at me, you fuckface? I will come across this motherfucking table at you so fast that you will not know what hit you.

What Billy didn’t realize was that Frank was a four-handicap golfer and an ardent follower of the tour. He knew who Billy was. He also knew of the arrest in New Orleans so he knew Billy wasn’t just hung over. Frank was also a volunteer at the tournament that Billy was playing in that week. He was actually honored to have Billy at the meeting and was holding back the urge to ask him for an autograph.

Frank was also sober for fifteen years and could smell bullshit from a mile away, and Billy was reeking of it.

At the end of the meeting, Billy took his paper up to the podium to be signed. Realizing he had a moment alone, Frank seized the opportunity and said, “U.S. Amateur Champion Billy Edwards. It’s an honor.” Billy was almost embarrassed by that, but was also buoyed with pride. “I still remember how you came from four down in the morning match to dust off Angel Hernandez in the finals three and two. That approach you hit to the sixteenth was a thing of beauty.” Billy stumbled out thanks. Frank continued. “What in the hell happened, Billy? Everyone thought you were the next great thing. Well hell, the fact you’re in an AA meeting I can guess what happened. I read the papers. Did you really punch that waiter in Portland? Ah never mind. Look, here’s my phone number. Call me anytime, but preferably before you take a drink, okay?”

Billy said sure. He put the signed paper in his shirt pocket and left the church.

On his way out he threw Frank’s phone number in the trash.