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It was a time of great and exalting excitement. The country was up in arms, the war was on, in every breast burned the holy fire of patriotism … on every hand and far down the receding and fading spread of roofs and balconies a fluttering wilderness of flags flashed in the sun … nightly the packed mass meetings listened, panting, to patriot oratory which stirred the deepest deeps of their hearts, and which they interrupted at briefest intervals with cyclones of applause, the tears running down their cheeks the while; in the churches the pastors preached devotion to flag and country, and invoked the God of Battles beseeching His aid in our good cause in outpourings of fervid eloquence which moved every listener. …

Sunday morning came — next day the battalions would leave for the front; the church was filled; the volunteers were there, their young faces alight with martial dreams — visions of the stern advance, the gathering momentum, the rushing charge, the flashing sabers, the flight of the foe, the tumult, the enveloping smoke, the fierce pursuit, the surrender! Then home from the war, bronzed heroes, welcomed, adored, submerged in golden seas of glory! … The service proceeded; a war chapter from the Old Testament was read; the first prayer was said …

Then came the “long” prayer. None could remember the like of it for passionate pleading and moving and beautiful language. The burden of its supplication was, that an ever-merciful and benignant Father of us all would watch over our noble young soldiers, and aid, comfort, and encourage them in their patriotic work….

An aged stranger entered and moved with slow and noiseless step up the main aisle, his eyes fixed upon the minister, his long body clothed in a robe that reached to his feet, his head bare, his white hair descending in a frothy cataract to his shoulders, his seamy face unnaturally pale, pale even to ghastliness. … he ascended to the preacher’s side and stood there waiting. …

The stranger touched his arm, motioned him to step aside — which the startled minister did — and took his place. During some moments he surveyed the spellbound audience with solemn eyes, in which burned an uncanny light; then in a deep voice he said:

“I come from the Throne — bearing a message from Almighty God!” …

“God’s servant and yours has prayed his prayer. Has he paused and taken thought? Is it one prayer? No, it is two — one uttered, the other not. Both have reached the ear of Him Who heareth all supplications, the spoken and the unspoken. Ponder this — keep it in mind. If you would beseech a blessing upon yourself, beware! lest without intent you invoke a curse upon a neighbor at the same time. If you pray for the blessing of rain upon your crop which needs it, by that act you are possibly praying for a curse upon some neighbor’s crop which may not need rain and can be injured by it.

“You have heard your servant’s prayer — the uttered part of it. I am commissioned of God to put into words the other part of it — that part which the pastor — and also you in your hearts — fervently prayed silently. And ignorantly and unthinkingly? God grant that it was so! You heard these words: ‘Grant us the victory, O Lord our God!’ … When you have prayed for victory you have prayed for many unmentioned results which follow victory–must follow it, cannot help but follow it. Upon the listening spirit of God fell also the unspoken part of the prayer. He commandeth me to put it into words. Listen!

“O Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth to battle — be Thou near them! With them — in spirit — we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe. O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it — for our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet! We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen.”

(After a pause.) “Ye have prayed it; if ye still desire it, speak! The messenger of the Most High waits!”

It was believed afterward that the man was a lunatic, because there was no sense in what he said.

The post War Prayer by Mark Twain appeared first on Waiter Rant.

After thanking my host for putting me up in his Costa Rican home for a week, I climbed into my Uber and began my journey away from sun, surf, margaritas and back to the real world.  If I knew what lay ahead of me, I would’ve stayed and applied for asylum.  

The departure area of Liberia Airport was packed with passengers and every seat at every gate was claimed. The same with every barstool, restaurant chair and every patch of sittable floor space. With two hours until my flight, I knew standing around all that time would aggravate my sciatica and turn my demonically cramped economy seat into a torture chamber. Aggravated, I prowled around until I found two empty perches far from my flight’s gate but, just as I put my bag on the ground, a guy swooped in, placed his carry-on bag on one seat and his ass on the other.  

“I was going to sit there,” I said. Since the man didn’t deem me worthy of a response, I took his bag, placed it at his feet, and then sat down next to him. “We can share,” I said, smiling. Without looking at me, the man grabbed his luggage and walked away. I guess he flunked kindergarten. Shrugging, I opened up my e-reader and lost myself in a detective novel until my flight was called. 

“This flight is full,” the purser said over the intercom. “Please remember you are only allowed one carry-on per person and one personal item which must be stowed under your seat. Additional items have to be checked at the gate.” It’s been my experience that nice normal people become greedy territory hogging assholes when it comes grabbing overhead space so, in an attempt to keep the buzz from of my Central American vacation from dissipating prematurely, I decided to skip the luggage rugby scrum and check my bag with the purser. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “I appreciate it.” And, since I was the ONLY passenger who did this, she let me board right after the wheelchair bound and first class swells as a reward. 

Watching from my aisle seat as people tried Tetrising all their shit into the overheads, I could feel the competitive heat radiating off them like the tropical sun baking the tarmac outside. And when the flight attendants caught someone trying to stow extra bags, I think the only think that stopped them from punching the stewards was the thought of incarceration in a Latin American jail or being duct taped to their seat for the entire flight. The bad behavior went up another notch because, after everyone was belted in and the safety video began trying to convince us that an uncontrolled decent into the ocean was survivable, the girl in the window seat next to me began shrieking uncontrollably. 

Judging from her boyfriend’s stiff posture in the middle seat, I figured I was witnessing a relationship drama or a breakup. Between the drone of the aircraft and my bad hearing, however, I couldn’t make out what the girl was saying and didn’t want to. Replacing my hearing aids with noise canceling headphones, I tried to tune the girl out, but her hysterical sobs still managed to break through my digital defenses. Sighing, I wondered if I should intervene but then said, “Fuck it. I ain’t getting paid to deal with this shit.” So, I just opened up my e-reader and tried losing myself in Travis McGee’s attempts to break up a murder ring whilst swilling gin on his Florida berthed houseboat, The Busted Flush. After forty-five minutes and no sign of the emotional storm abating, I gave up and headed to the bathroom. “You okay over there?” a flight attendant asked. 

“I’m fine,” I said. “I listen to this kind of crap for a living.” 

After completing my ablutions and wondering how anyone could find sexual congress desirable in such a cramped space, I chatted with the stewards, did calf raises to ward off deep vein thrombosis, gazed through the porthole at the cerulean hues of the Caribbean Sea, and then returned to my seat. As I sat down I looked at girl’s pinched, red face and quietly telepathed, “Enough is enough young lady.” I think she got the message because, a few minutes later, she was fast asleep on her boyfriend’s shoulder. Ah, young love. I don’t miss it one bit. Then again, when I was their age, I probably thought the “Mile High Club” was a doable thing. 

When we landed in Houston my opinion of the couple furthered soured when the young man said to me, “Can we go ahead of you, sir? We have a connecting flight and want to get something to eat.” Rolling my eyes, I let them out first but, to the couple’s chagrin, no one else let then advance a step further as the plane emptied out in proper everyone take your turn fashion. Chomping at the bit, the boyfriend looked at the airline app on his phone, and to my dismay, I could see over his shoulder they were on my connecting flight to Newark. Goddammit. If the girl acted up again, I wondered if I could slap her and then have all the passengers follow on with fists, boxing gloves, baseball bats, pipe wrenches, and a revolver. Where’s a violent Hare Krishna when you need one? 

George Bush InterContinental Airport was a nightmare. Already the media poster boy for long TSA lines due to the funding freeze, the place was pure bedlam. Heading toward immigration I got in the line for U.S. passport holders and said a silent prayer for everyone queuing on the other, much less friendly line. After getting my face scanned to assure ICE I was indeed a bona-fide citizen, I discovered, much to my dismay, that I was no longer in the secure area of the airport and had to go through TSA again. If I had to wait the advertised four hours, I’d miss my flight – but luckily connecting flights got shunted to a separate line which only took thirty minutes. Looking at the shell shocked people just getting to the head of their line after hours of waiting, they looked like war torn villagers who’d just had their abodes blasted back to Stone Age. 

Since I did not have access to the free eats in the bespoke lounge my wife enjoys with her favored status traveler credit card, I grabbed a usuriously expensive beer and burger on a restaurant stool and noted with annoyance that my winsome waitress with the aggressively fake smile had automaticity tacked an 18% tip onto to my bill –  but I knew nothing fancier than pretzels would be served on my connecting flight and least the burger was good. Fortified and slightly anesthetized, I made my way to my gate.

After listening to the full flight and carry-on admonition again, I boarded the plane, found my aisle seat, and watched yet again as people clubbed each other in an effort not to be delayed at the baggage claim after landing for a single fraction of a second. “These people have seen Up in The Air too many times,” I thought to myself. Spying the offending young couple from the previous trip making their way down the aisle, I braced myself for more drama only to discover, to my infinite relief, that they were sitting in the row opposite mine. Of course, someone worse just had to sit next to me. 

The guy was the size of LeBron James, and his lady friend was equally as large, just in another dimension. As they wedged themselves into their cramped seats, I knew I was in for an uncomfortable flight. Not to be mean, but the lady’s bulk spilled over the armrests and, in an effort to bypass the personal item rule, she had stuffed five bags into one big one which ended up trespassing on my scant bit of legroom. But the best was yet to come. 

“Excuse me,” an old woman gripping an antediluvian paper ticket said to LeBron’s girl, “But I believe you’re sitting in my seat.” 

“I SUFFER FROM AN ANXIETY DISORDER,” my seatmate bellowed. “AND IF I CAN’T SIT NEXT TO MY MAN, I WILL HAVE A PANIC ATTACK!” 

This outburst, of course, drew the immediate attention of the flight attendants who, after some quick negotiations, sat the old woman in an aisle seat next to the drama couple in the opposite row. Aisle seat instead of the middle? If it wasn’t for those kooky kids, the woman might’ve made out on the deal. “Good luck,” the old woman said to me as she buckled herself in. “You’re gonna need it.” Feeling LeBron’s girlfriend tense up next to me in response, I decided not to reply, knowing her boyfriend could easily stuff me into that tiny trash receptacle in the lavatory. As the plane took off, I braced myself for an emotional storm as the woman buried her face into her beau’s chest and began shaking like palm tree in a hurricane. Thankfully she kept it mostly together. 

The moment we hit our cruising altitude, the girlfriend dug into her sack and began pulling out Tupperware container after container of pungent smelling food which the couple tore into with gusto. Not that blamed them, airline food is overpriced but, as their slurping, munching and belching cut through my deafness and the airplane noise, I began to wonder if I was developing a case of late onset misophonia. After the couple finally sated their gustatory needs and stowed their greasy containers, they doused the overhead lights and – blessedly – went to sleep. Thank you Jesus. Returning to the prose of John D. MacDonald, I tried to ignore the burning of my overstressed sciatic nerve and get through the rest of my fight in peace. Alas, that was not to be. 

Somewhere above Cleveland, just as Travis McGee and his sidekick Meyer were about to put the bad guys away, fingers the size of hotdogs began gently caressing my face. Thankfully years of dealing with wackos kept me from freaking out and give my brain time to figure out what was happening. LeBron was dozing by the window with his arm around his girl and must’ve sleepily mistaken my face for hers. Either that or I’m far more attractive than I give myself credit for. Gently pulling LeBron’s fingers off my face, I gave them a gentle squeeze and roused the sleeping giant from his slumber. 

“Dude,” I said. 

“Oh, shit man,” LeBron said. “I’m so sorry.” 

“No worries.” 

Reflecting on my return trip as we left Ohio airspace, I was reminded of a videotaped exchange between a reporter and the deranged mega church pastor Kenneth Copeland as she questioned his exclusive use of private jets for travel. “A lot of people,” she said, “Think it’s unbecoming for a preacher to live a life of luxury and to fly around in private jets.” 

“It takes a lot of money to do what we do,” Copeland replied.

“You said you don’t like to fly commercial because you don’t want to get into a tube with a bunch demons. Do you really believe that human beings are demons?” 

“No, I do not,” sputtered Copeland, pointing at the reporter with a demonic look in his eyes that made my thousand yard stare look like Tinkerbell’s. “And don’t you ever say I did!”  Then the video jumped to a previous recording of Copeland holding court with his obsequious acolytes while he smugly crowed, “Get in a (plane) …get in a long tube with demons!” Now, I don’t like Copeland one bit but, considering my latest aviation adventure, I had to concede he might’ve had a point. Later, as Ms. LeBron begin to shake during our descent into Newark, I silently prayed:

“Get thee behind me Satan.” 

The post Long Tube With a Bunch of Demons appeared first on Waiter Rant.

I was driving to do some Christmas shopping with my family when we passed the cemetery where my father’s mortal remains are interred. As the massive white marble clad mausoleum rose into view I said, “Time to say hi to Dad” and waved. No reaction from my passengers.  

“And hi to my old girlfriend too,” I said. That got a reaction. 

“She’s buried here too, isn’t she?” my wife said. 

“Yep. Died eleven days after her mother.” 

“How sad.” 

“Never married or had kids,” I said. “Lived in her parent’s house her whole life.” 

“I wonder why,” my wife said. 

Elizabeth had not lacked in the looks department and, when I knew her, didn’t pick up on any traumas that could’ve developed into a pathology preventing her from ever leaving the nest. But then again, I didn’t really know her.  Liz could’ve had a contented existence as far as I knew, doting on her nephew, niece, and cats while singing in her church choir and jogging endlessly through town. Life, as someone once said, is what happens to other people when you’re not around to see it. 

“No way to know why anyone is who they are sometimes,” I said, still feeling the trace of Elizabeth’s spectral kiss on my lips. 

At the store, I took my daughter to the jewelry counter to pick out some earrings for her mother. “She’d like something flamboyant,” Natalie said, fingering a pair of heavy pendants that would’ve probably stretched my wife’s perfectly shaped earlobes to the floor.

“Your mother will like anything you give her,” I said. “Because it’s from you.”

Making a face, Natalie put the bauble back on the rack and said, “It’s crap. The backs are broken.” 

“Sharp eye, kid.” 

“There’s nothing here I like. Can we go that store in town tomorrow? Where I got her that necklace last year?” 

‘Sure,” I said. “Let’s go find your mom.” 

Walking through the store filled with holiday shoppers, I felt mildly depressed. I’d been so busy at work helping hundreds of other people have a nice Christmas that I’d given my own family short shrift. Luckily, my wife’s has always picked up the slack but, when Natalie opens her gifts under the tree, I’m usually just as surprised as she is.  I’ve also really never liked Christmas. Part of that has to do with the madness at work during the holidays, but also something much older. 

Every year my department holds a toy drive for disadvantaged tots and, although we hit a home run every year resulting in the kids getting more stuff than mine does, in the weeks leading up to the main event I’m always anxious I’ll fail them somehow. My wife, whose always helped me set up the “toy store” the past ten years, knows why. Last week, in a quiet moment before the parents arrived, my wife and I stood in silence and surveyed the vast number of toys donated by hundreds of kind people. “Thank again for all your help, honey” I said. “Couldn’t have done it without you.” 

Touching me on the arm, Annie whispered, “You did right by that little boy – again,” causing me to almost tear up. 

“I forgot I told you about that.” 

“I never forgot it.” 

When I was a small boy, the Boy’s Club I went to always threw a Christmas party where everyone got pizza, soda, saw Santa, and got a toy. But when I was about eight or nine, I was waiting for my dad to pick me after the party when a father and his small son walked in only to find out Santa and all the toys were gone. Sitting at a table with my soda, I watched the boy’s face crumple and the dad’s body stiffen with what I somehow knew was guilt. Then, as the man led his son back outside, I burst into tears. When my dad finally arrived, he was bewildered to find his son sobbing inconsolably as a counselor frantically tried to figure out what had happened. I never went to that party again. 

Looking back on it, that was the day I realized shadows never stray far from light and, even when people are at their most joyous, there’s always someone on the outside sadly looking in. As the years passed, I’d see those shadows appear again and again – watching AIDs patients wasting away while newborns cried in the next ward, faithful innocents preyed upon in beautiful churches, my friend’s widow crying as Easter’s spring glory flowered, the poor shivering outside restaurants while happy splendor swirled within, tucking my daughter into bed knowing another child had no safe place to lay their head, and the list goes on and on. I guess I’ve always lived in that liminal space and, while that might make me effective at my present job, as a guy in a movie once said. “Be careful what you get good at.” There are days I want to chuck it all and sell cars but, if I’m honest with myself, I’ve always been drawn to those shadows; probably because I often feel like I’m on the outside looking in too. Maybe that’s why I like to write, looking for patterns within the shadows and light. If I find any, I’ll let you know.

After getting home from our retail sojourn, I opened a beer and set about making dinner. Taking some chicken breasts out of the fridge, I butterflied them, seasoned them with salt and pepper, dredged them in flour, and placed them into a fry pan with equal amounts of olive oil and butter. As they cooked, I halved a pound of small tomatoes, minced some shallots and, after the chicken was golden brown and resting under foil, threw them into the pan with some white wine and capers until it all reduced down into a sauce while rosemary sprinkled wedges of potatoes drizzled with olive oil baked in the oven. As my wife made a salad, I whipped up a Dijon and garlic vinaigrette, threw some basil leaves into the chicken’s sauce and then, rather artfully I’d say, plated everything and brought it to the table like the waiter I used to be. 

“Really good, honey,” my wife said after sampling everything “This would’ve cost eighty bucks easy in a restaurant.” 

“If not higher,” I said. “They way prices are going.” 

When we were done my wife banished me from the kitchen to clean up and I sat with my daughter on the couch to watch TV. Sitting with my dog snug against my leg and Natalie lying on my opposite shoulder, I half watched the tube while listening to the stiff winds outside rattle my living room windows. Looking at my smart watch, the weather icon said the wind chill made it feel like 13 degrees. Stroking my daughter’s hair and dog’s fur at the same time, I thought about the homeless guy in town who lives in his car because he refuses to go to a shelter. “One day,” I thought to myself, “We’re gonna find him frozen dead in that car.” And just like that, in the warm glow of hearth and home, shadows still found their way in. 

After shooing Natalie to bed, my wife made me take the garbage to the curb. Grumbling because I have a perfectly healthy kid who could perform this task, I donned a coat, walked out into the chill, and dragged our oversized and overstuffed bin to the street. Above me the stars were starting to peek out from behind the clouds as the Christmas lights blazing on my neighbors’ houses cast twinkling patterns on the ground. Looking at my dead friend’s house I sighed. The anniversary of his suicide was a few weeks ago and, I must admit, that event put me into tailspin that took me a long time to recover from. Now a new young family was living in his house and, as I watched them pass by windows shimmering with warmth, I smiled. Unlike light, shadows have no weight or presence, they are just absences waiting to be filled. You could also say they are opportunities – if we only had the eyes to see them. Has that what my life has been about? What I’ve always been on the imperfect lookout for? Oblivious to the cold, I thought about my dad, Elizabeth, my lost friend, that little boy from long ago, and knew good things had always come to fill the voids they left behind. Maybe it’s all our jobs to help make that very thing happen which, when you think about it, is what Christmas is truly about. “A light shines in the darkness,” I whispered, my breath condensing in the frigid air, “And the darkness has not overcome it.” Or at least I hope so.

We just have to hold on. 

The post Shadows & Light appeared first on Waiter Rant.

I like my penis. He’s provided a lot of joy during my life, taken me on many adventures, provided me with a daughter and, last I checked, not too many complaints from the ladies. But in early 2021, it seemed my little buddy and I were on the verge of an unexpected and very much unwanted breakup. 

“Lie down here on your side,” the nurse said, prepping me so the doctor performing the biopsy could stick a sonograph up my ass. 

“I’m going to pretend I’ve been abducted by aliens,” I said, sliding onto the table.   

“Whatever gets you through it,” she replied. When the procedure commenced the pain wasn’t bad but, as the doc cored out samples out my prostate gland, it sounded like a staple gun going off. “Almost there,” he said. “Just a couple more.” 

“Do your worst,” I said. “I’ll never give up the location of the rebel base.” The doctor didn’t laugh, probably because he’d heard it all from hundreds of shit scared men before. When we were done, he said it’d be a week until I got the results and, bleeding out my butt and told I’d be ejaculating crimson for a while, I went home, shell shocked. When the phone call finally came, it was bad news – prostate cancer, Gleason Scale 7. 

“Am I going to die?” I said, grasping my office phone tightly. 

“Oh no,” the doc said. “Eleven of the samples were clear and there was only 10% cancer in the last one. We caught it early.” Then he gave me the phone number for a specialist and told me to make an appointment. For a man who just learned he had cancer I was fairly calm, so I went home, told my wife, and did what everyone in my family does when they get bad news – head for the nearest restaurant. 

A couple of weeks later, I was ushered into one of the specialist’s exam rooms and, sitting on a parchment papered table inhaling the scent of Lysol, looked at all the diagrams of the human reproductive system on the wall. The prostate, which produces semen, was a walnut shaped gland snug hard against the bladder. Lots of tight tolerances down there. Then the specialist stuck his head inside the door and said, “Come with me. We’ll talk in my office.” Right then I knew I was screwed. The only time you see patients talking in a doctor’s office is in cheery pharmaceutical commercials. 

Sitting in a leather chair, I examined the doctor’s diplomas and certifications hanging on the wall and could tell from his demeanor he was well practiced lowering the boom on patients. “I think your cancer was caught early,” he said and then launched into all the ways we could treat it. “But you’re a still a young man,” he said, “And the best chance for your survival is to get a radical prostatectomy,” which basically meant cutting out my prostate and all the plumbing associated with it, adding, “It’s the best bang for your buck.” But when he started discussing the possible side effects of the procedure, that’s when the fun began. 

No one wants to get cancer, but prostate cancer is a double-whammy. Not only are some malignant cells in your body gaming to kill you, but the prostatectomy the doc was suggesting carried the risk of life-long impotence, possible urinary and fecal incontinence, playing havoc on your relationships, nixing any chance of having more kids, and fucking with your head in a big way.  

“If I can save the nerves governing sexual function,” he said somberly, “I will. But my job is to save your life and, if I have to, I’ll take them out. All it takes is for one cell to be left behind. One cell.”

Still sensate at this point, I asked what treatments were available if my little buddy was rendered nonfunctional but, when the doc started regaling me with talk of penis pumps, vacuum tubes, and implants, my soul left my body. Suddenly floating above the room and looking down, I could see myself listening to the doctor, but his voice sounded underwater and far away. Seeing I’d mentally checked out the doc called my wife who, because of COVID precautions, couldn’t come with me. 

Snapping out of my dissociative estate, I listened to the doc and my wife talking as the room spun at 1000 RPM and shut my eyes. Then the ruthless part of my brain, that cold blooded shadow who’s always been inside me, began to talk. “You have a seven year old girl and a wife who need you. Don’t be a whiny bitch. Do what must be done. Do not hesitate. Show no mercy.” Agreeing to the procedure, I walked out of the office with a bunch of pamphlets, an admonishment to get a second opinion, a script for a bone scan, and went home. I don’t even remember the drive back. That was, hands down, one of the toughest days of my life. 

Waking up in the recovery room a few months later, ironically on the morning of my eighth wedding anniversary, I didn’t hear the doc saying the surgery was successful, that the cancer had been encapsulated and contained to one side of the prostate, all the nerves involved with erections and continence had been spared, and that my prognosis was very good. All I remember was my wife’s presence and nothing else. When I came to a bit later, I knew who I was, where I was, what had happened and, floating in an opiate haze, didn’t much care. “You made the right decision,” my shadow whispered. 

“Fuckin’ A right I did,” I replied. 

“Have I ever steered you wrong?” 

“Thanks Darth Steve.” 

Discharged and home the next day with a catheter hanging out of my weenie, I refused take my pain meds in a misguided macho attempt to gut it out with Tylenol and turned into a raving miserable bastard. Luckily, my wife planned for this and stashed my daughter at a friend’s house, ensuring Natalie didn’t have to hear me moan, groan and yell for my wife to empty my urine collection bag which, when it backed up, sent backpressure into my kidneys. Two days later and finally strong enough to get out of bed, I strapped a collection bag to my inner thigh and started taking my doctor prescribed walks around the block. Because my right thigh had gone temporarily numb, however, I needed to use a cane so I wouldn’t tip over. When one of my neighbors saw me, he said, “What happened to you?” 

I didn’t tell many people I had prostate cancer but, in that moment – exhausted, scared, and needing words of support – my filter slipped and I told my neighbor what had happened. “What?” he exclaimed. “I don’t want to hear about that kind of stuff!” and then scurried back into his house. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Prostate cancer, while very common, is very threatening to us men because it strikes at the core of who we think we are, but that didn’t stop me from thinking “Thanks motherfucker.” After that, I kept my own counsel, which was very isolating. There are all sorts of support groups for other cancers but what color was my ribbon? Was there even one? Sadly, because this stuff is about sex, conceptions of manhood, and your private parts, most men suffer in silence – which is bad.  

Now we’re gonna talk about my dick. Buckle up folks. 

To say my penis was out of commission would be an understatement, like it had said, “Fuck this” and retreated back into my body to hide. One time I couldn’t even see it was there, only a catheter coming out of where it used to be. When the cath came out eleven days later, my little buddy eventually peeked out to take a look around, but felt like a cold, flaccid noodle. “You have to give it time,” the surgeon said. “The nerves are fine but it’s like they’ve been hit with a baseball bat. They’ll take a long time to recover.” How long? The best answer I got was about a year. To help keep the blood flowing into my defunct unit, I was put on a daily 5mg dose of Cialis and told when my urethra – which had been bisected to remove the prostate – had healed, I could lightly play with it. Not content with my aftercare instructions, I launched into an ad hoc penile rehabilitation program for which I’m going to file a patent. 

“What are you looking at?” my wife asked me one morning as I sat with my computer in my lap. 

“Porn,” I said, matter-of-factly.

“What?” 

“Some naked chicks in high heels dancing around a pool.” 

Laughing, my wife said. “Is anything happening?” Since the surgery, my little buddy hadn’t evinced signs of life and, despite the pixelated vixens writhing sensuously on the screen before me, that day was no different. But I had plan. 

“Nothing’s stirring,” I said. “But my brain’s stimulated and, even though nothing’s happening down there, I’m hoping the nerves pathways are still getting a workout.”  

“Kind of like physical therapy,” my wife said. 

Smiling, I replied, “Build it and they will cum.” 

“What would the nuns say to that?” 

“I think if I went into the confessional with a note from my doctor I’d get a free pass.” 

After a couple of weeks of this, my doctor gave me the all clear to start lightly resuming sexual activity via masturbation.  “You can still have an orgasm even if you don’t get hard,” he said, “But don’t beat up on it.”  So, when I had the house to myself for a spell, I gave it a go and achieved a kind of liftoff. Since I could no longer produce semen, the orgasm was “dry”, but it was like no other climax I’d ever felt – weird and kind of disappointing. “If it was like a sound,” I told my wife, later. “It’d be like a kitten sneezing.” But, despite the letdown, I was reassured by the fact that the nerves were still firing. Then the next day I woke up with half a chub. When I told my doctor he said, “So soon after surgery? That’s wonderful news. You’re going to be okay.” 

At this point, I want to clear something up – you can’t enjoy sex if you’re dead. My primary focus in getting a prostatectomy was to ensure Natalie would grow up with a father and prevent my wife from becoming a widow. As far as the sex stuff went, my wife said, “We’ll deal with it.” Thank God she believes in all that “better and for worse” jazz but let’s be real – the threat of not being able to sexually function as a normal man again is very upsetting stuff. Sometimes, focused on helping you survive, doctors give fact short shrift to that fact. But what happens to your little buddy is also important and, no matter the outcome, dealing with that psychological reality is part of the recovery too. After a few months however, despite my surgeon’s confidence and my consuming more porn than is healthy, I was still not achieving my former glorious turgidity.

“What were the quality of your erections before the surgery?” my urologist asked during a follow up visit. “On a scale of one to ten?” 

I knew why he was asking the question because I’d read the pamphlets. If you’re having good erections prior to surgery, the odds are good you’ll have a better recovery. Flagging as often happens in middle aged men? Not as good. “I’d say I was about a ten,” I replied.  

“A ten?” the doc said, looking like he didn’t believe me. 

“Oh no,” my wife chimed in, kind of wistfully. “He’s not exaggerating,” That’s right baby – like a hammer to a nail.

“Then I think we need to jumpstart things,” the urologist said. “I want you to start injecting Trimix into your penis.” 

“What?” I gulped. 

“It’s like Viagra,” the doc said. “But on steroids. I’ll teach you how to inject it directly into your corpus canoverssum.” So, a few days later, I found myself in the urologist’s office with my pants down, one hand holding my wang, the other holding a needle, and my wife waiting breathlessly – or so I like to think – at home. “I can’t do this,” I said. 

“Don’t be a baby,” the urologist said. “Stretch it out, hold it against your thigh and inject directly into the side.”

“Uh….” 

Taking matter into his own hands, the doc grasped my penis, pulled it tautly to the side of my left thigh and said, “Do it now.” And I did. 

“Okay,” the doc said. “It’ll start working soon. Go home and have fun.” Shuffling out of the exam room, I could feel my penis starting to stiffen as I walked past the receptionist. Did I mention I was wearing grey sweatpants? Oh yeah…

“How it’d go sweetie?” the receptionist asked. 

“My penis hates this place,” I said.  

Laughing she said. “I’m going to print that one up and post it on the break room fridge.” 

What happened afterwards, I will admit, was not my finest performance, nor was the time after that. Frustrating? In extremis. But who could blame me? Just picture yourself plunging a needle into your dick while crying on the toilet as your love awaits in the boudoir for some fun time. Romantic it is not, but the doc was right, the Trimix did jumpstart things. Eventually the needles went bye-bye and became a story to make my guy friends double over and things started to return to normal – but it was a new normal.

“You’ll always need some pharmaceutical assistance,” my urologist said, writing me scripts for ED drugs. “Just the way it is. Use the Cialis when you think it might happen and Viagra when you know it’s gonna happen.” But when I went to fill the scripts, I got the shock of my life.

“That’ll be $758.25.” the pharmacist said. 

“I like my wife,” I said. “But I don’t like her that much.” 

“Cash or charge?” 

“I’ll get back to you.” 

Later, on the horn with my evil insurance company, I was told ED medications were “lifestyle drugs” and not covered under my plan. “But I had prostate cancer,” I said. “I didn’t choose this. This isn’t a lifestyle choice.” 

“I’m sorry, sir,” the rep said. 

“So,” I said. “I have to be rich to enjoy sex now?” 

“I’m sorry, sir.” 

“You’re not sorry!” I said, picturing the rep being flayed alive by grotesque serpents in whatever circle of hell insurance people are damned to. “You’re not sorry at all!” That was a bad day. “What the hell?” a friend of mine said after I related the story of my erectile penury to him. “Just use Good RX.” 

“That’ll be $28.95,” the pharmacist said the next day. 

“How the hell can it be $758.25 yesterday and $28.95 today?” I almost yelled. “And why didn’t you tell me about Good RX? Or my doctor?” The pharmacist just shrugged. 

“Just don’t use both these pills at the same time,” he said.

“No shit, buddy.” 

The lesson here men, if you’re ever in my situation – or just want a better hard on – use Good RX for all your putting lead in your pencil needs. See? Reading this blog does offer some benefits. Now, sometimes I need those drugs and sometimes don’t, but I’m not going broke buying them. And the doc was right; it took about a year before things were back to full schwing.

Some men are not as lucky as I am. When I went for my pathology report a couple of months after my prostatectomy, the surgeon said, “I operated on three men that day and you’re the only one who’s going to make it. There’s a 90% chance this will never bother you again. The hell you went though was worth it.”  Despite feeling relieved, I found the doc’s words sobering. It could’ve easily gone the other way and, when you consider I’ve now been cancer free for four years and can still do the horizontal mambo, I had what’s called a perfect surgical outcome. Lucky indeed. 

It haven’t written about my experience so far because it took me a long time to wrap my head around it. But I didn’t share this story to give anyone advice. Every man’s prostate cancer journey is different. What I did may or may not be what you should do. Nor do I have any profound wisdom to share. The experience didn’t promote any deep spiritual insights or make me a better person. If anything, it made me less patient putting up with people’s penny-ante bullshit. I still am, as my wife will attest, the same asshole I was before. But thanks to faithfully getting an annual digital probe and PSA test, really good doctors, a devoted and very patient wife, supportive family, friends, coworkers, and just plain luck, I came out the other side – different to be sure – but still very much alive. 

“Right now,” a doctor told me when I was at my worst, “You think everything’s changing and not for the better. But when the dust settles in a year or two you’ll adjust, this will all be in your rearview mirror, and your life will go on.” And he was right. So, if any of you guys find yourselves in the same boat I was, find a support group of men who’ve been through it or just drop me a line. You don’t have to go through it alone. 

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a patent to file. Hello, Porn Hub? Have I got a marketing opportunity for you. 

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I was having drinks and a cigar with a friend when he said, “If you’d become a priest, you’d be a bishop by now.” 

“And Jesus wept,” I replied. 

“No,” he said, “I’m serious. I’ve seen you speak, read your stuff, you’re a natural. People listen to you.” 

“That’s very flattering,” I said, feeling embarrassed by my friend’s overestimation of my abilities, “But if I got ordained, I think I’d’ve ended up becoming a drunk.” 

“Nonsense,” he said. “You don’t get drunk, at least not anymore.”

“Well,” I said, shaking the ice in my glass, “Maybe today’s the day. But I tell you one thing, if I’d become a bishop, I know what my episcopal motto would’ve been.”

“What?” 

“Amor Ingeniosus Est – Love is Ingenious.” 

“That’s a good one.” 

“It’s from the writings of St. Paul of the Cross. It was the motto of a very fine man named Norbert Dorsey, the former bishop of Orlando. I met him once on retreat and he had quite an impact on me. I even used his motto in one of my books. Norbert was one of the good ones.”

“Too bad there aren’t enough like him.” 

“True,” I muttered. 

Then, looking me in the eye, my friend said, “The Church blew it when they lost you.” 

“Stop,” I said, throwing up my hands. “I think I’m exactly where God wants me to be.” 

While I’ll admit to sometimes fantasizing about being an irreverent and slightly crazed pope, I know I’d have never become a bishop if I’d stuck seminary out. I have too big a mouth and a perverse love of fucking with pompous assholes, of which the episcopacy is well staffed. But my friend, God bless him, has always been in my corner, seeing me in a positive light even when I didn’t and, while I appreciated his fulsome praise, I chalked it up to his ability to always see the good in people, and more than a few whiskeys.

Then a few days later, I was reading a book about religious history when the author, discussing how pagan Romans were amazed, and sometimes discomfited, by the care early Christians lavished on the poor, orphans, foundlings, widows, elderly, and the sick, noted that, prior to the church, institutions providing continuous care for such people simply didn’t exist. It didn’t happen all at once, nor unfold perfectly, but the message of the Gospel those earliest followers of “The Way” preached – with its call to care for the least of their brothers and sisters –  eventually percolated through all levels of ancient society with, through the lens of history, astonishing rapidity, and kicked thousands of years of pagan religion, which was often just religious cover to excuse the cruel barbarities inflicted by the strong upon the weak, to the curb. Other than the occasional kook, you don’t find too many people worshipping Mithras anymore. 

Then the author mentioned a 3rd century Christian document I’d never heard of before, the Didascalia, which outlined the duties a bishop had towards his flock. “Encompassing,” the author wrote, “Responsibility for the education of orphans, aid to poor widows, and the purchase of food and firewood for the destitute, as well as strict vigilance over the money flowing through the church, lest it issue from men guilty of injustice or of the abuse of slaves, or lest it find its way into the hands of persons not genuinely in need.” Slack jawed, I realized I was reading my job description. Last week marked my tenth anniversary as the director of my town’s social service’s department and, after reading this knew, in all that time, I’d checked every one of the Didascalia’s boxes. 

My department, in addition to maintaining a food pantry, pays for school lunch programs, send kids to summer camp, help maintain widows in their homes, buy medications for elderly folks, collect toys and school supplies for disadvantaged children – some of them orphans – get people warm clothes, pay overdue rents, place the disabled into new jobs and apartments, shelter immigrants fleeing poverty and violence in their homelands, and, while I don’t pass out firewood, we’ve shelled out a bundle helping people pay their heating and electrical bills too. I don’t do all this by myself mind you. Without the help of my volunteers and the generous people who’ve donated their time, money and expertise to my department year in and year out, none of it would be possible. But, because I’m also the steward of the monies and goods we receive, my role also involves making sure it goes to people who are “genuinely in need,” which is the least fun part of my job.  

When I started in 2015, my predecessor summed up the job as being a “generosity coordinator” which I’ve always thought very apropos.  Like I said, without other people’s help, nothing would get done, so my role is to wrangle people’s talents, time, and resources so as to have the best effect which is basically “overseeing” the whole shebang, and the Greek word for overseer is episkopos – bishop.  My wife is always saying running a food pantry was my chance to get the parish I never had but, after reading the Didascalia, I realized my friend could’ve been right – maybe I might’ve had what it took. Yes, I know this all a bit self-aggrandizing but the symmetry of my former vocation with the one I have today is both wonderful, humbling and delightfully weird because, as I see generous people bring in donations day in and day out, I’ve gotten to see ‘oI Norbert was right – love is indeed ingenious. Maybe today at least, I’m exactly where God wants me to be. Looking up from my book, I yelled, ““Honey, I just got a promotion.” 

But if I wear one of those pointy hats to work, I’ll probably get fired. 

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I woke up with a nagging pain in my right arm, which didn’t surprise me since I’d been afflicted with what I figured was a bad case of tendonitis all week. Because I’d rolled onto the offending limb in my sleep, the pain was now acute. Since this syndrome had been messing up my nights, I’d been bunking in the guest bedroom so as not to disturb my wife’s slumber. Suffice to say, I was running quite the sleep deficit. Rolling out of bed I went into the bathroom, popped three Advil, and then rubbed some liniment into my arm to numb things up.  

Sitting in my quiet living room with coffee and the news, I waited patiently for the drugs to work their magic until it was time to wake my daughter up for cheerleading practice. Rosie, my new Boston Terrier, perhaps sensing my distress, plopped down next to me on the couch and started licking my leg. As I listened to the clock tick, I felt my mood begin to darken with each passing second. “If this is how you are at fifty-seven,” I thought to myself, “Then old age is going to be a shipwreck.” When the caffeine finally hit my bloodstream, I went upstairs and nudged Natalie awake. 

“Get cracking, kid,” I said. “Practice is in an hour.” 

Still in my robe, I went into the kitchen to make breakfast when I spied a bunch of boxes piled in a corner awaiting flattening for disposal. Aggravated my wife hadn’t done this already – probably knowing I’d do it anyway – I scooped one of the floor, drew a kitchen knife out of the cutlery block and started to cut, hitting resistance when the blade encountered a stiff piece of tape. Grunting, I put my elbow into it and the knife burst through the box and sliced the middle finger of my left hand. 

“Fuck!” I yelped. 

Embarrassed at my stupidity, I went to the sink to wash out my finger, watching as my baby aspirin thinned blood stained the water red. Looking at the cut, I knew it’d need stitches. Wrapping my finger in a paper towel and applying pressure, I used my free hand to call my wife who was out was meeting friends in Manhattan. 

“Yeah,” I said, after explaining what happened. “I need to go to urgent care.” After my wife said she’d find someone else to take our daughter to practice I went upstairs and calmly told Natalie I had to go to the doctor. “No biggie,” I said, so as not to alarm her. “But someone else will take you to practice. Mom will call you.” 

When I arrived at the urgent care center, the waiting room was empty save for a mother with a little boy lying in her lap. The child looked feverish and, as his mom gently stroked his hair, I could tell she was nervous. Remembering a couple of scary visits to the ER with Natalie, I understood. Then after a few minutes spent texting my wife, the door swung open, and a nurse bade me entrée. “I’m here for this,” I said, holding up my injured digit. “It’s very serious because I use this finger to communicate all time.” 

“I hear ya,” she said, laughing. 

“Think I can get a handicapped sticker out of this deal?’ 

“Probably not.” 

Finding my vitals sound, the nurse said the doctor would be with me in a few minutes. Then I mentioned the pain in my arm. “Since I’m here,” I said, “I might as well get it checked out.” 

“No need for stitches,” the doctor said twenty minutes later. “Just a dressing.” 

“Oh good,” I said. “I thought I’d really messed it up.” 

“The arm, however, I think you have a bad case of tendonitis. But we’ll take an X-Ray to be sure nothing else is going on. Could be some calcification there.” Great. More rads. I’d just had a CT scan the previous day because of a problem with my lower back, a sciatic issue that had killed my running routine dead. When the radiology tech asked if I wanted a lead apron, I replied in the affirmative.

Back in the exam room awaiting the results, I noticed I was becoming very agitated. Ever since my cancer experience, I get the heebie-jeebies every time I smell Lysol. “Hearing aids, cancer, glasses, my back and now this,” I thought to myself. “I am falling apart.” In addition to the CT scan that week, I also had blood work to see if my cancer was still in remission which, despite having been tested many times, still sets me on edge. But I also knew thoughts of my recently departed friend, a man my age, were rattling around my head. Taking a deep breath, I tried thinking positive thoughts. “Your blood test came back golden,” I thought. “Your heart is good, your weight is down, your vitals were perfect, you have a lovely wife and daughter, a job with purpose, and it’s a beautiful day. What are you complaining about?” 

“You’re arm looks fine,” the doctor said, looking at the x-ray. “But I’m going to refer you to an orthopedist. It could be cubital tunnel syndrome.” 

“Probably from holding my damn cell phone.” 

“Could be,” she said. “I’ll give you a course of steroids for the pain.” Oh goody. That shit beats the hell out of Advil. 

Walking out with a script, I went to the pharmacy, got my drugs, and then walked over to the diner to get breakfast. I hadn’t eaten since five the previous afternoon and was feeling it. Once the waitress placed a glass of water in front of me, I opened the blister pack and popped me some ‘roids. Hopefully I wouldn’t turn into the Incredible Hulk. 

“What’s that for?” the young waitress asked. 

“I’m getting old,” I replied.

“You’re not old,” she chided. 

“Honey,” I said, “The Fifties have sucked.” 

Breakfasted and feeling better, I drove to the practice field to make sure my daughter knew I was okay. My mother-in-law had picked her up and told me she’d take Natalie to grandma’s for the afternoon. Good. I needed a break. Then the urgent care center called me. “We didn’t give you a tetanus shot,” a tech said. “Come back.” When I walked into the waiting room this time, however, the place was packed with people of all ages looking miserable. Luckily, the staff took me in right away.  

“I leave and all hell breaks loose,” I said, as the nurse needled my arm. 

“Yeah,” she said. “It got really busy.” Walking out, I saw an old man with his head in his hands while his wife gently rubbed his back. That had been me after the docs told me I had cancer. Jesus. 

Back at my house, I liberated the dog to let her run in the backyard and pee. Then, just as I was winding up to toss a tennis ball, a large purple dragonfly settled into a hover inches from my face. Instead of being alarmed, however, I was awestruck by its effortless and graceful flight. As if sensing me, the dragonfly bobbed up and down, almost like it was saying hello. Then, settling on the grass, the bug was still, allowing me to see the glory of its iridescent diamantine wings, as if it were an angel announcing the wonder of creation. Standing under the bright sun, time seemed to stop and everything in my humble backyard suddenly became luminously beautiful – making every tree, blade of grass, and flower shimmer while the birds’ singing resounded like chorusing Cherubim. Looking down, I saw that Rosie had crept up on the dragonfly and was transfixed by it too, as if sharing in my little moment of rapture. Then the dragonfly flew away and the spell was broken. 

Knowing I’d been under pressure lately, I figured I’d had some kind of stress reaction, and that my unconscious had weaved some emotionally imbued imagery together to soothe me. I’d seen my dead friend at his wake, so I knew anything was possible. Maybe it was the steroids screwing with me. Despite my theologizing, I can be quite the cynic. Now with the house to myself, I did something I can never do when my wife and kid are home – watch TV. Flipping through the channels, I stumbled across an old favorite, the BBC show Rev. About an Anglican vicar ministering to an inner city parish in London, I’d always thought the title character played by Tom Hollander was a lot like me and, as I watched him deal with the homeless, addicted, mentally ill, and folks just needing a sympathetic ear, I’d told my wife the reverend’s parish mirrored my job perfectly – just without the soutane and incense. But I also knew Hollander’s sensitive portrayal of the vicar mirrored my own struggles with faith as well. Does anything I do matter? Is my belief just death anxiety evading bullshit? Should I just sell cars? 

As the show progressed, one of the parish’s schoolteachers is killed in an accident and it falls upon the vicar to break the news to the school’s very young students. Looking ill at ease in his cassock, the vicar tells the kids that they wouldn’t be seeing their teacher anymore. Noting that the teacher didn’t believe in heaven, but that he did, he said, “I don’t know what [Heaven] is, but I do know a story that gives me an idea.”

“It’s a story about a lot of little bugs that lived at the bottom of a river and every now and then one of the bugs would crawl up a plant through the water into the light and he’d never be seen again by his friends. And one day one special little bug felt that he wanted to crawl up the plant too, so he did. He crawled up the plant through the water into the light and he turned into an amazing colorful dragonfly – and he flew around the air, and he was the happiest he’d ever been. But when he tried to fly back down into the water to tell his bug friends how wonderful it was, he found he couldn’t. He couldn’t get down into the water anymore because he wasn’t a bug anymore, he was a dragonfly. And this upset him until he remembered that one day, all his friends would crawl up the plant too and join him in the sun.”

Sitting on my couch with tears running down my cheeks, I knew seeing that dragonfly in my backyard and hearing the vicar’s words soon afterwards hadn’t been a coincidence. My vision hadn’t been a stress reaction; it had been something else. What? I don’t know but, as Rosie snored contentedly next to me, I felt my fears and cynicism melt away, sensing without words that a curtain had been parted and, for a moment, I’d been given a glimpse of the glory that suffuses and sustains existence. Perhaps it had been the world’s wonder reminding me of the beauty that awaits us all – that one day we will all be like dragonflies, flying happily together under the warm sun. 

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Which ever way you swing religion wise, this is a sermon worth listening to.

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Why am I only hearing about this short film now?

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Several months back, I was watching the HBO show White Lotus when one of the characters asked an old Buddhist monk happens to us after death. “When you are born,” the monk said, “You are like a single drop of water, flying upward, separated from the one giant consciousness. You get older, you descend back down. You die. You land back in the water, become one with the ocean again. No more separated. No more suffering. One consciousness. Death is a happy return, like coming home.” 

I found the monk’s words reassuring and unsettling at the same time. While I’m all on board with suffering going out the window and death being a happy return, my ego rebelled against the idea of my disappearing into some anonymous and eternally vast ocean of consciousness. Not being an expert on Buddhism, however, I’m sure I was missing something. But that monk’s words came back to haunt me last month, after my oldest friend Andy died in his sleep while vacationing in the Caribbean. When his wife called that morning to tell me the news, I wasn’t surprised because he’d had health problems for a long time, but it was still a shock. 

When I went to the funeral home a week later, I saw my what remained of my friend of forty-three years in a wooden box on a table surrounded by a collage of pictures celebrating his life. Andy had been cremated in the islands and part of me was sad I couldn’t see him one last time, but part of me was also relieved. When people your own age die, especially someone you were close too, it can be too much to handle. Then, after I gave a eulogy and the priest said his words, we took the urn to the memorial garden at his family’s church and deposited Andy’s ashes into ground, all of us taking turns covering the hole with earth. After performing this last rite, I walked away from the mourners and looked up at the sky. It’d had been a very hot day, and the media had been blaring warnings about severe thunderstorms rolling in all morning. High above, dark clouds filled to bursting boiled above us but, directly above the church, they’d parted to create a circle of pure azure sky. As the sun’s power fell like a divine spotlight on the proceedings, I smiled. I hadn’t needed the umbrella I’d brought. 

At the repast afterwards, I was nursing my second margarita when I saw Andy sitting at a table by himself, looking at the fuss being made over him with a bemused smile. As you can imagine I was a tad surprised. Then, when I blinked, my friend was gone, replaced by one of his relatives sitting alone with a beer. Seeing the departed isn’t unusual soon after death – one of the few hallucinatory experiences that won’t get you committed – so I didn’t think I was going insane. I’d even heard my departed dogs barking and walking around for a few weeks after they’d passed. “That’s just Felix telling us he’s okay,” my wife told me after I’d leapt out of bed, thinking I’d left him outside before remembering he was gone. “Go back to bed.” Though it might’ve been a confluence of grief, booze, exhaustion and nerves, I wondered if my friend’s appearance was his way of telling me he was okay too.

Two weeks later in Lake Tahoe, however, my eyes snapped open at 4:00 am and I could feel my heart racing in my chest. Lying in bed terrified, I wondered if some medical malady had roused me from slumber – but I don’t have sleep apnea and, when I checked the EKG feature on my smart watch, it told me I was in sinus rhythm. Chalking it off to an unremembered nightmare, I tried going back to sleep but, because thoughts were frothing about my brain, I couldn’t. Then I realized what was going on. My friend had gone to bed and didn’t wake up and I was afraid the same thing would happen to me. After tossing and turning for a while, I gave up on sleep and went down to the hotel’s lobby to see if they’d managed to make coffee. Of course, there was none. 

Walking outside, I went to the lake’s shore and stared at the vast expanse of placid water ringed by mountains as the sun began to rise. It was very beautiful, but I found myself wondering if that old monk had been right; that we’re just drops of water that will eventually fall back into an eternal sea. Was my friend still who he was? What would become of me? Spiritualties that say you must lose all sense of self in order to access the divine have always bothered me. The idea of losing all I am to become one with some kind of Cosmic Om just seems like a journey of the alone into The Alone. The negation of your being to return to Being is, when you think about it, violent. Not my idea of a “happy return.” 

The next evening after dinner I decided to take my family on a drive. We’d already been all around Lake Tahoe, so I pointed my car in the opposite direction and, as we summited a mountain, felt my ears pop as we climbed past 7300 feet. Then, after we’d gone over the ridge, we were treated to quite sight. Below us the Carson Valley shimmered in the light of the setting sun as the Sierra Nevada’s glowed with purple mountain majesty. “You don’t see this in Jersey,” I said to my wife. Cradled in the valley below, the town of Minden seemed like a child’s toy and, awed by the beauty being lavished before me, I realized there was so much more of this world for me to see. From the heights, the view unfolded for a hundred miles, making it seem like the mighty mountain chain stretched into infinity. Then I remembered something a guy once wrote, “The finite cannot contain the infinite, but the infinite can easily contain the finite.”  Maybe that’s what that old monk meant – that there’s plenty of room in existence for all of us as us. No negation, no violence or loss – just a happy return to the place where every tear is wiped away. 

During the sermon at the funeral, the priest told us what Andy’s wife had said to him soon after her husband of thirty-two years died. “I can just see Andy saying, ‘Oh Goody!’ when he entered heaven.” Looking at the vista below my feet as grief and joy surged within me, I knew infinity, far from being a solvent into which we dissolve, was the very thing that allowed us to be and that it’s peaceful beauty not only contained us but was the very thing that would make “all things new.” Oh, goody indeed. Perhaps that’s why Andy had a bemused smile on his face when I saw him, as if telling me:

 “Steve, you ain’t seen nothing yet.” 

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We had an early flight out of Reno Airport so, to avoid rushing, we left Tahoe the day before and checked into The Nugget Casino in Sparks, Nevada. After settling into our dated room in the Casino Tower, I said to my wife, “Let’s hit the slots.”  Not being stupid, I wedged a chair under the knob of our room’s connecting door and had Natalie throw the lock when we left. 

“When I call you,” I told her, “You’d better answer.” 

“Okay, Dad,” Natalie said, happy to be left alone with her iPad.

I have gambled in casinos before, mostly blackjack and poker with reasonable success. This time out, however, I wasn’t in the mood to hit the tables and just wanted to spend an hour or two playing the slots with my wife. When we walked into the casino, however, Annie was agog at the high limits. 

“$25 a spin?” Annie said. 

“There are $5 and $1 slots,” I said. 

“No, we’re hitting the penny ones.” 

“It’s never, ever a penny.” 

“I don’t want to lose money.” 

Sighing, I went over to a penny slot and, after feeding it money, it whirled, jingled and flashed. My wife said, “We won!” 

“We lost.” 

“Huh?” 

“The least amount you can bet on this machine is thirty credits, that’s 30 cents. We ‘won’ ten credits but really lost 20 cents.” 

“That sucks.” 

“Intermittent rewards, babe,” I said. “That’s how they hook you.” Eventually, we tired of this con and went to the $1 slots and after going up and down, I placed the max bet – and lost. 

“Let’s go to another machine,” Annie said. 

“Okay,” I said. “But let’s go for one more dollar.” This time Lady Luck smiled on us, and we hit for $103. Damn, if I’d only placed the max bet again. 

“We’re done,” I said. “Let’s go get a drink and quit while we’re ahead.” 

Finding a bar, I ordered red wine for my wife and a Bloody Mary for myself. Feeding a dollar into the video poker machine in the bar, I played for a couple of nickels a hand. When I didn’t get a check, however, I asked the bartender, (Who was the spitting image of my friend Jimmy Noonan of WWE & Supertroopers fame ) what that the deal was. “If you’re gambling the drinks are free,” he said, flatly. Duh. How could I forget?  

“See honey?” I said. “Two drinks for one dollar wagered. That’s how places like this get you.”   

“Uh huh,” my wife said. 

“Look at all these people at the bar,” I said, pointing to the patrons staring into Keno machines, their faces oblivious and lit with a ghostly glow. “Where have you seen that before?” 

“I dunno,” Annie said. “Where?” 

“It looks like people staring at their cellphones.” 

“You’re right.” 

“Those bastards at Facebook and Instagram took their design cues from slot machines. Intermittent rewards and little dopamine hits. That’s how they got billions of people hooked to their gizmos and spending money. Compared to what those guys rake in, Vegas might as well be a lemonade stand.” 

I’d only drank half my Bloody Mary because Annie quaffed the other half along with her generous pour of wine. A lightweight drinker, I knew the booze would hit her like a freight train. Signaling the bartender, I asked for another drink. “This one’s mine,” I said. 

“Sure,” Annie said with a faraway look in her eye. I could tell she was falling under the casino’s spell. When we were in Vegas a few years ago she won $500 at slots but eventually lost it all. Uh oh. Then a guy walked up next to us and called out to the bartender. “Hey!” he yelled. “You hear what happened to Frank?” 

“No,” the bartender said. 

“He got fucking murdered!” 

“No shit” the bartender said, his face devoid of expression.

“He was fucking around with some quiff and, well, he got what he got I guess.” You meet such lovely people in a casino. 

“Let’s go,” I said, leaving a fiver on the bar. Just the day before some lunatic shot up a Reno casino and I wasn’t keen on listening to stories about homicide. 

“Let’s play a little bit more,” Annie said, so, we hit the slots again and lost twenty bucks. “All done,” I said, “We’re still up eighty bucks. In this town, that’s a win.” 

“You go upstairs,” Annie said. “I’ll try my luck some more.”

“No way,” I said, “If I leave you down here, you’ll be selling your blood by morning.” 

As we made our way to the elevator through the casino, I thought of how I loved going to Atlantic City when I was younger, or when Las Vegas seemed like a great adventure. But now, seeing the glazed eyes of patrons mindlessly pulling levers and pushing buttons, I thought of the first lines from Ian Fleming’s book, Casino Royale. “The scent and smoke and sweat of a casino are nauseating at three in the morning,” he wrote. “Then the soul erosion produced by high gambling – a compost of greed and fear and nervous tension – becomes unbearable and the senses awake and revolt from it.” 

At five the next morning, I was chatting with our Uber driver on the way to the airport when the topic of the recent shooting came up. “People in there just kept gambling,” he said. “Like nothing was happening.” Sounds about right. A guy I knew saw his father drop dead of a heart attack in a casino. He told me as the EMT’s were doing chest compressions, the betting never stopped, and people hardly looked up from their cards. But then again, people often react the same way with their cellphones, not even sparing a glance for someone in distress or, worse, filming it for social media likes – which makes me think profit driven tech bros will only be happy until the entire world has been turned into an unfeeling gigantic money hoovering diabolical casino. Talk about soul erosion. Talk about nauseating. You think you’re winning with all the free stuff and entertainment your apps give you, but you’re really losing. Talk about revolting – but when you want to see a freak show, nothing beats a casino. 

But does my daughter have to grow up in one?

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