A Dark and Stormy Delight

Rob did hair when we first got married. We didn’t really make enough money to pay our bills but with the help of family, we were okay.

One of the things we did back then was buy supper with Rob’s daily tips. Rob would stop at the store and buy bread, milk, soda, tuna, chopped meat, or coldcuts.

Neither of us really cooked so there were plenty of to-go or delivered meals as well. We had pizza, occasional Chinese, or fish and fries from a place called Jean’s Beans. Not sure why it was named that, but it was a popular place with good fish.

One of the regular places we ordered from was Chicken Delight. Perfectly spiced fried chicken pieces in a bucket, with a side of warm rolls with butter was our usual. I don’t remember if we ever ate vegetables or salad. I’m lying. I remember. We didn’t.

It’s pouring outside. Sometimes when it’s really dark and the sky opens up, I think of Chicken Delight. One windy, rainy night we phoned in our order. We were a bit apprehensive thinking delivery service might be canceled because of the weather. And were pleasantly surprised when it wasn’t. A short time later, the weather went from bad to worse. It was a full-blown storm with brilliant lightning and pounding thunder. Rain pelted the windows. We expected a call canceling our order, when there was a frantic knock on the door. The drenched young man on the other side looked shell shocked. We apologized.  He was shivering and said, “That’s okay. You’re my last delivery. I’m going home.”

We never had much money, but we gave him a big tip. 

In hindsight, we should’ve invited him in. After all, he risked his safety to bring our dinner.

We ordered often from Chicken Delight.

We never saw him again.

Shades

My brother once lived in a huge Victorian home. It stood across the street from another towering once grand house. The homes were glorious in their day; fine estates of the well to do.

Much of the architectural detail could still be seen on the outsides. The insides were sliced and diced into tiny apartments and studios, betraying every hint of their youthful beauty. The two aging Victorians stood in fading vigil of a sketchy neighborhood comprised of smaller deteriorating dwellings and unkempt lawns.

But my brother was feeling his way back from having spent two years in a war. “They” said he’d have no trouble getting a job when he returned. He did. “They” said he could go to college on the G.I. bill. He didn’t.

The years spent in the army must have seemed a lifetime to him. He didn’t recognize the world he returned to. The music was strange, the style of dress almost clown-like, and the air in that town often reeked of marijuana.

He was out of place. He missed out on being part of the culture that had so drastically changed in such a short time. His experience had been part of a different culture – a scary, heartbreaking, unexplainable world. One that couldn’t be understood by those at home. One that he and others like him were wrongly blamed for.

At one point, he bought a black light. Black lights were almost passe by that time, but I thought it must have been one of those things he thought he missed out on.  He didn’t have curtains on his windows. He had white shades that lit up in the ultraviolet glow. A few nights later, he bought some day-glo paints. I was there, and Soupy, and most likely, Little Eddie.  But I don’t remember who else was at his apartment that night. He always had visitors. We all painted pictures on the shades. I remember I painted a tree. Someone else painted a shooting star. Night scenes, mostly.  We all liked the effect and sat back to admire our creation. We talked and laughed for hours and fell asleep there.

The next morning, the painted shades looked ill. Day-glo, in contrast to its name, does not glow in the daytime. But then, my brother just rolled them up. The sun shone through the windows. And in those early morning rays I saw in his face a definite glimmer of his fractured world merging.

Jim, in Viet Nam on Christmas.

Street Smarts

When I was sixteen and angry at someone, I got what I think was some great advice on the subject of revenge.  It wasn’t from a teacher, mentor, wise great uncle or a good book.  It was given to me by one of my brother’s cronies.

My brother was brain damaged.  His friends were mentally challenged as well.  Some were born that way.  Others arrived there courtesy of drugs and/or alcohol.  He was one of the few who lived in his own little apartment.

If I went to visit him and he wasn’t home, I could usually find him on one of the downtown benches under the train elevation.  They were usually taken up completely with the town’s assortment of colorful characters, of which he was one.  When I did trek over there to see him, one of his friends would jump up and offer me a seat. 

Seating was at a premium and it was there under the elevation that I learned a witticism I still repeat sometimes.  “Shuffle your feet, lose your seat.”

The faithful gatherers were full of little witticisms and never seemed to run out of things to talk about.  Like everyone else, they discussed the latest news, sports and politics, and any number of everyday topics, they’re unique views notwithstanding.

I only stayed 15 minutes or so.  That was enough time to come away smelling like a combination of smoke and dirt with my head spinning and ears ringing.

Trains roared overhead with a deafening thunder every fifteen or twenty minutes.  The grime-worn benches vibrated. A coat of black soot swirled in ribboned patterns on the gum laden, trash strewn sidewalk.  Behind them, broken glass and cigarette butts adorned the weeds.  Yet they sat there day by day like they were sitting on a park bench watching kids feed the ducks.

So my ears were ringing from the train noise, but my head was spinning from the pinball-like conversations.  A cohesive thought would be shot out.  It would hit the bells, buzzers and flippers and then slide down the shoot.  A few points could be scored before ring, bang, buzz, boom, TILT!

On one of my visits I mentioned being disappointed with a “so called” friend.  All sorts of revenge tactics were bandied about in pinball fashion.  You have to realize all of these guys had more than their share of being taken advantage of.  They’d all been robbed, beaten, laughed at and abused.   So that “pinball” was whizzing around like mad.

It inevitably tilted but I remember one multi-point winner during the discussion.  Someone said, “Don’t do anything to hurt another person where you will get hurt yourself.”

I thought – hey, that’s good advice.

I know he thought that was possible.  But the more I thought about it, the more I realized it’s not.  You can’t hurt other people without hurting yourself.

Cultural Differences

I once worked with a young Ecuadorian woman. We often ate lunch at a nearby mall. On one occasion we noticed decorations being set up and walked over for a closer look.  I was thinking tasteless junk and looked over to say let’s go when I noticed her staring.  After a few seconds she said, “I wish I could buy some of these for my mother.” Stunned, I replied, “I’ve seen pictures of your mother’s yard – filled with some of the most beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen!”  And, she sighed, “Yes, but she doesn’t have plastic ones.”

Nutmug Book

My mother once said I should write a book about her. She had a title for it. NutMug, a play on words from her nickname, Mug. I’ve called her Magoo (or the shorter version, Mug) for years. My brother gave her the moniker because she drove like Mr. Magoo. She often missed her exit or got off at the wrong one and drove around lost until she providentially found her destination. When she saw a stop sign, she’d creep into the middle of the intersection and stop there. Why? I told her numerous times to just drive through the intersection if you’re not going to stop at the sign. “You’re gonna get us killed.”  She said she couldn’t see.

Why? Cars and trucks are big. I didn’t understand.
When I was fifteen I’d been in a car accident. A week later, my mother took me for a follow-up exam. I was petrified. I kept slamming on the imaginary brake with my not imaginary broken foot. She must have noticed my pain and near heart attack because she stopped at a stop sign. Not in the intersection but at the actual stop. She reached into her purse and pulled out a pair of rhinestone studded glasses with cat eye frames (from the 1940’s?) and put them on. “What are those?!” I gasped. “I was always supposed to wear glasses.” she said.