The lies we all long to hear (from '09)

This happened exactly just the way I wrote it. Only took me about 30 minutes to write back in '09. I was so pleased with it I chose to include it as one of 33 essays in the "Crayons!" book. 

I had my stand-offish Sunday morning face on. I hadn’t showered and didn’t want any human interaction other than that six or so words I’d exchange with the clerk where I buy gas.

I finished pumping, crossed the parking lot and pulled open the door to the local Sheetz convenient mart.

It was like I walked into a one-man surprise party and I was the guest of honor.

“Bill! Hey, Bill! Man, is it good to see you!”

I looked around. I was all alone. I was Bill.

Now careful readers of this blog know I am not Bill and have never pretended to be Bill.

But the elderly stranger who thought I was Bill was thrilled to see someone he was convinced was Bill.

He was probably in his late 60s. He had a very kind face that was enlivened by seeing what he thought was an old friend. He had his fist salute extended and was waiting for me to bump knuckles.

I realized I was in a common social predicament. He’d confused me with a good friend.

He looked coherent, but who knows? Maybe he was one of our numerous village idiots. I’m friends with most of them, but they are accumulating like snow these days and it’s difficult to keep track of them all.

What was I to do?

I raised my fist, gave him my warmest buddy-buddy greeting and said, “Hey, how the hell you been! You look great!”

And he did. He looked like I look when I’m driving down the road and hear John Fogerty and Creedance singing, “Doo! Doo! Doo! Looking out my backdoor!”

He was delighted.

My still-slumbering mind was racing through dozens of calculations. What was the risk here? Should I let him down gently or play along? What if the real Bill walked in?

You can converse with a stranger for about 90 seconds of generic conversation involving some form of the question, how are you?

Then the gentleman upped the ante. He wanted to know how Bonnie was doing.

We’d reached a turning point. I was left with a choice of either backing down and, perhaps, ruining the splendid start to his day or pushing another stack of lies to the center of the table.

“She’s great! Just finished all her Christmas shopping. Her mom slipped on the snow last week, but she’ll be all right.”

He was sorry to hear that. He asked me how work was going, allowing me the opportunity to venture into a rare burst of honesty.

“It’s been slow, but things are turning around. I’m optimistic better days are on the way.”

The guy at the counter was buying lottery tickets and the other clerk was fetching change. My high-wire act couldn’t endure forever. C’mon, let’s get those registers ringing.

“And how about Mark? How’s he doing?”

He was a family guy so I figured Mark was my son. I know kids today have their problems, but it was the holidays. I wasn’t going to ruin his day by telling him Mark’s in rehab.

“He’s great. He’s up at Clarion University. He wants to be a veterinarian.”

This pleased him. He had fond memories of Mark.

The guy at the counter was putting his change in his wallet and I was hoping Bonnie and I didn’t have any more kids.

Finally, it was his turn to pay just as the other clerk stepped up. At just about the same time, we both realized our little holiday was over. We looked each other in the eye and put our right arms around the other’s left shoulders for brief man hugs.

It was a beautiful moment.

We wished each other a Merry Christmas and I told him I’d be sure to tell Bonnie he’d said hello.

It reminded me of the final scene of the great 1995 movie “Smoke,” in which the Harvey Keitel character tells the William Hurt character about an encounter he had with an elderly blind woman who thought he was her nephew. He wound up staying for dinner. Hurt thinks he made it all up, but as the credits role they show the scene he recalled as the Tom Waits’s song, “Innocent When You Dream” plays.

It’s magnificent.

I thought about the right and wrong of what I’d done as I drove home. I’d told a slew of lies to a kind-hearted gentleman who may one day wind up very confused next time he sees Bill or Bonnie out getting gas.

But I think my bigger sin was not the lies. It was the size of them.

They were all too small.

I should have told him our bowling team won the league championship, that Bonnie had a book of poem’s published, her mom had won the state lottery and that Mark was studying to be an astronaut.

I should have told him they’d discovered a cure for cancer, the wars were all over and they’d discovered a way to fax leftovers to the hungry.

I should have told him that this Christmas everything was going to be all right.

Because, really, that’s what he wanted Bill to tell him. It’s what we all want to hear.

I hope even a fraction of all that happens.

And I hope Bill, Bonnie and Mark have a wonderful Christmas and Mark doesn’t ruin the holiday by drinking too much.

Mom's collapse nearly disrupts my day

I foresaw two ways Mom was going to die Sunday -- one natural/ the other violent -- in the parking lot of an Irwin convenience mart called Sheetz, a store that sells no sheets.

As previously noted, Mom is what I euphemistically say is “in decline.” In fact, she’s going to hell.

And I mean that purely in the physical sense. Spiritually, she’s heaven-bound, I’m sure. 

She deserves eternal bliss for 78-years of exuberance, warmth, innate love and an effervescent sense of humor that’s enriched so many lives.

I’ve been missing that woman for months.

She’d spent Saturday night with us in Latrobe. I was driving her home to Pittsburgh, an inconvience that would put a big dent in my Father’s Day.

Still, things always work out best for me. My buddy scored two free tickets to the Leon Russell show at the Pittsburgh Rib Fest.

He told me Russell would take the stage at 1 p.m. I figured I could drive Mom home and drop her off with a dear cousin. A true godsend, the 22-year-old is living with Mom while nannying a nearby family.

See, God’s always watching out for me.

My plan was to get her home and then stop by with my buddy for a few hours of ribs and blues and be home in time for dinner.

Mom rode along in stretches of silence looking nervous and hunted. She understands dementia is settling in and seems to think she’ll be able to duck it if she can just see it coming, like crossing the street to avoid a potential mugger.

But I can’t ride in silence and there’s stuff I’d still like to get on the record.

Do you believe in heaven, Mom?

“Yes. I don’t think it just ends with this. I think we’re together with family.”

Think you’ll see Dad in heaven?

“I think so. You know I can’t even remember him anymore. It was like another lifetime ago.”

He died in 2004. 

You don’t remember all the happy times you had together?

“I remember we used to socialize a lot.”

Where were you happiest?

“The house in Greentree.”

It was were my brother and I were born. We lived there five years.

Do you have happy memories from the house on Earlswood?

“I don’t remember that house.”

She lived there 30 years. It’s where she raised her sons. She doesn’t remember any of that.

I looked over at her and thought without any real emotion, Mom, it’s time for you to go.

She’s at a stage where many caretakers would be wondering if they’re doing enough.

I wonder if I do too much, which is next to nothing.

A front-line advocate of natural death, I don’t want to take her to see scores of specialists who’ll tinker with pharmaceuticals, neutralize her decline and add worthless months, maybe years, to a life that to me is looking spent.

It is time for Mom to go.

Well, from my lips to God’s ears.

She’d gone into the store to get a glass of ice while I pumped the gas. She came out staggering two minutes later.

She nearly collapsed atop a souped-up Impala with a skull decal on the rear window. It was in immaculate condition and looked like it was owned by a man who wouldn’t tolerate a dead bug on the fender, much less a dead granny.

I hustled over and gingerly pulled her off the car hood before the owner saw her offense and began tearing her apart. I sense motorists who put skull decals on their cars can be very picky about their vehicles.

She’d been struck by sudden light-headedness.

I put her in the car and reclined her seat. I asked if she wanted to go to the hospital. She said no.

At this point, many sons would have overruled mom and driven her straight to the emergency room.

Not me. I believe the only people who die in hospitals should be victims of multiple blunt force traumas. I’m very disdainful of providing excessive care to seniors who 50 years ago would have died quickly and peacefully at home.

Know what I did for her?

I reached out and with my right hand turned the radio station to the symphony channel.

This was not a trifling gesture.

Remember, Saturday was the day Clarence Clemons died. The Springsteen station on the satellite radio was rockin’ soulful tributes to a man I loved.

I think letting my Mom’s fragile condition dictate the music -- even as I checked to see if she was still breathing -- means I’m a good son. 

That’s just the way I think.

A lot of strange thoughts enter your head when you’re tooling down the Pennsylvania Turnpike with your mother who may or may not be dying in the passenger seat. 

She’s donating her body to science.

Days after she dies, hungover med students will be carving up her naked remains like a Thanksgiving turkey all in the name of pure anatomical research.

It creeps the hell out of me, but seems to eliminate any urgency about reporting her death, if she does, in fact, die around the Monroeville interchange.

I wonder if there’s a big night deposit box for bodies at one of the medical centers.

Or could I just leave her in the car for a few hours while I went and watched Leon Russell jam? Really, what would it matter?

Instead of dying that day, she snoozed and revived.

I never did see the old bluesman. My buddy had the time all wrong.

Russell didn’t come on until about 9 p.m. That means Mom would have had to stay in the car for more than eight hours.

Some busybody would have reported an elderly dead female in the parking lot. The cops would have been waiting for me.

A scandal would have ensued. I’d have taken a public opinion pounding.

A lot of people would have been outraged. They’d have said my decision making was criminal.

I staunchly disagree and am at peace with my actions. I’d testify I’d done all that could be expected from a son like me.

You see, Mom never really liked Springsteen all that much.

The lies we all long to hear

I had my stand-offish Sunday morning face on. I hadn’t showered and didn’t want any human interaction other than that six or so words I’d exchange with the clerk where I buy gas.

I finished pumping, crossed the parking lot and pulled open the door to the local Sheetz convenient mart.

It was like I walked into a one-man surprise party and I was the guest of honor.

“Bill! Hey, Bill! Man, is it good to see you!”

I looked around. I was all alone. I was Bill.

Now careful readers of this blog know I am not Bill and have never pretended to be Bill.

But the elderly stranger who thought I was Bill was thrilled to see someone he was convinced was Bill.

He was probably in his late 60s. He had a very kind face that was enlivened by seeing what he thought was an old friend. He had his fist salute extended and was waiting for me to bump knuckles.

I realized I was in a common social predicament. He’d confused me with a good friend.

He looked coherent, but who knows? Maybe he was one of our numerous village idiots. I’m friends with most of them, but they are accumulating like snow these days and it’s difficult to keep track of them all.

What was I to do?

I raised my fist, gave him my warmest buddy-buddy greeting and said, “Hey, how the hell you been! You look great!”

And he did. He looked like I look when I’m driving down the road and hear John Fogerty and Creedance singing, “Doo! Doo! Doo! Looking out my backdoor!”

He was delighted.

My still-slumbering mind was racing through dozens of calculations. What was the risk here? Should I let him down gently or play along? What if the real Bill walked in?

You can converse with a stranger for about 90 seconds of generic conversation involving some form of the question, how are you?

Then the gentleman upped the ante. He wanted to know how Bonnie was doing.

We’d reached a turning point. I was left with a choice of either backing down and, perhaps, ruining the splendid start to his day or pushing another stack of lies to the center of the table.

“She’s great! Just finished all her Christmas shopping. Her mom slipped on the snow last week, but she’ll be all right.”

He was sorry to hear that. He asked me how work was going, allowing me the opportunity to venture into a rare burst of honesty.

“It’s been slow, but things are turning around. I’m optimistic better days are on the way.”

The guy at the counter was buying lottery tickets and the other clerk was fetching change. My high-wire act couldn’t endure forever. C’mon, let’s get those registers ringing.

“And how about Mark? How’s he doing?”

He was a family guy so I figured Mark was my son. I know kids today have their problems, but it was the holidays. I wasn’t going to ruin his day by telling him Mark’s in rehab.

“He’s great. He’s up at Clarion University. He wants to be a veterinarian.”

This pleased him. He had fond memories of Mark.

The guy at the counter was putting his change in his wallet and I was hoping Bonnie and I didn’t have any more kids.

Finally, it was his turn to pay just as the other clerk stepped up. At just about the same time, we both realized our little holiday was over. We looked each other in the eye and put our right arms around the other’s left shoulders for brief man hugs.

It was a beautiful moment.

We wished each other a Merry Christmas and I told him I’d be sure to tell Bonnie he’d said hello.

It reminded me of the final scene of the great 1995 movie “Smoke,” in which the Harvey Keitel character tells the William Hurt character about an encounter he had with an elderly blind woman who thought he was her nephew. He wound up staying for dinner. Hurt thinks he made it all up, but as the credits role they show the scene he recalled as the Tom Waits’s song, “Innocent When You Dream” plays.

It’s magnificent.

I thought about the right and wrong of what I’d done as I drove home. I’d told a slew of lies to a kind-hearted gentleman who may one day wind up very confused next time he sees Bill or Bonnie out getting gas.

But I think my bigger sin was not the lies. It was the size of them.

They were all too small.

I should have told him our bowling team won the league championship, that Bonnie had a book of poems published, her mom had won the state lottery and that Mark was studying to be an astronaut.

I should have told him they’d discovered a cure for cancer, the wars were all over and they’d discovered a way to fax leftovers to the hungry.

I should have told him that this Christmas everything was going to be all right.

Because, really, that’s what he wanted Bill to tell him. It’s what we all want to hear.

I hope even a fraction of all that happens.

And I hope Bill, Bonnie and Mark have a wonderful Christmas and Mark doesn’t ruin the holiday by drinking too much.

BP = evil/ Old Spice = good

I don’t for a minute believe BP when it says it’s capped the well. I think they have a stage set with a Top Hat rig in a pool about 20-feet deep they’re using to simulate competence.

Look carefully enough at the tape and in the dim background you can glimpse BP men walking around on their way to meetings where they plan wars, famine and the futures of men like LeBron James.

Who knows what kind of menace you’ll see if you look deeply enough into BP?

This is a company of such grandiose evil you have to believe Darth Cheney’s somehow involved.

Now comes the news that BP was behind the release of murderous terrorist Abdel Basset Ali al-Megrahi -- and I hate him even more now that I had to type and spell check such a long and awful name.

It’s outrageous.

I understand a certain ruthlessness is required to run a global conglomerate that earns obscene profits that number in the billions.

You need to deceive governments, your customers, your stockholders and daily do unethical things that would cause terminally poor men like me to lose sleep at night.

But this deal with Libya goes beyond the pale. What business in the name of profit leans on a government, in this case Scotland, to free a man responsible for the terrorist deaths of 270 innocents?

And what government says, yep, sure, you can go free and live out your years in the comfort of your loved ones where you’re considered a hero for your deadly villainies.

In America, this would be an impeachable offense.

I don’t cast my votes in Scotland and am in one of those all-too-common situations where I want to lash out at a target too nimble to hit.

I don’t drink Scotch, preferring all-American bourbon, so I can’t hit them there.

The boycott BP movement isn’t satisfying either. That’s taking it out on the little guy who runs a mini-mart that just happens to be linked to what is right now is the world’s most damaged brand.

I doubt any mom ‘n’ pop started their franchise by saying, “Pa, what the good people in this neighborhood really need is a place to buy good ol’ BP gas. It’s the best gas. It’s good for their cars and the BP rep gave me his word the company will never do anything to disgrace our affiliation.”

The guy’s probably like me. He couldn’t care less if he sells BP gas, Exxon or some other petroleum product.

Gas isn’t like underarm deodorant, a product that requires some brand loyalty. Like my dad, I’ve always been an Old Spice man, a patronage that’s currently being rewarded by its association with the funniest ads ever seen on TV.

(“Swan dive! Into the best night of your life!”)

I buy gas based on need. When the gauge starts to edge toward “E,” I pull over to the nearest filling station. I don’t feel like I’m being disloyal to Sheetz if I stop at the Get Go. I don’t think the car’s going to run angry if I fill up with Exxon instead of Chevron.

I couldn’t care less.

So there’s nothing a guy like me can do to punish BP for its treachery.

All I can do is hope that one day, and I pray it happens soon, we find a cheap and clean alternative to oil that is at the root of so many environmental and foreign policy problems bedeviling this godforsaken world.

And I don’t want something incremental. I want it to be an overnight sort of sensation.

I’d love to see President Obama break into programming with a stunning announcement that tomorrow at noon every car in America will be fitted for free with glove box converters that will allow vehicles to run in perpetuity on just one slim dispenser of Old Spice High Endurance Deodorant Stick.

Know what I’ll do?

I’ll buy everyone at the bar a shot of good ol’ Kentucky bourbon and together as one we will swan dive into the best night of our lives.