That learning sometimes begins when you are hurting the most
That sometimes something good happens, even to me
That I don’t know how to listen, but that I can learn if motivated enough
That Love is one hell of a motivator
That good sex isn’t enough but it’s awfully close
That loneliness is dying alive
That I do not have to settle for a purely comfortable relationship
That I’m a good man but I can still fuck things up
That I will never understand women, and it's time to leave it at that
That leading with my heart instead of my head is the only way to fly, even though I might crash or get shot down
That falling deeply in love is possible at any age, especially this one
That I’m a morning person – also an evening, afternoon and middle of the night person
That I am changing, but sometimes I revert
That actually finding time for that long walk on the beach is difficult even when you live at the ocean’s edge
That the person I love thinks she loves me more, but she's wrong
That I am a married man between gigs
That a long, long hug is better than Advil
That I feel honored to be that important to her
That I have always been afraid and have spent most of my life trying hide that fact
That hanging on to regrets is regrettable
That I'm finally, thankfully, letting go
That having less room in a bed makes sleeping more difficult, and that's just fine with me
That I am missing her right at this moment
Friday, April 27, 2007
Sunday, April 22, 2007
You Must Remember This . . .
Well, it’s time for another update on this getting older thing. You will recall, that when last we met, I was 61. Okay, it wasn’t that long ago, I’m still 61, but there’s a lot going on with aging that I haven’t talked about so let’s start.
First thing you should understand is that there is good and bad about getting on in life. We all tend to focus on the bad things, because these usually involve some kind of loss, and the losses are obvious, maybe not right away but one day you notice them like you notice being hit with a water balloon. For instance, every day I shave in front of a mirror. Most men do this, so you’d think that we’d have a pretty good idea of what we look like. Not so. When I shave, I’m not looking at my face, I’m looking at a part of my face that the razor is passing over (or slicing through depending on how steady my hand is). Then I look at my hair while I brush it (not much left – I know each of them by name), and my teeth while I brush them. Every so often, I have to look at my ears, nose, or eyebrows so I can deal with a plague of unwanted hair growth in those areas. See? All of these are pesky bad things. But once in a while I stand back and gaze at the whole picture of the me that the world sees. Holy shit, who’s the old guy? When did my hair get so gray, when did all those little spots and bumps sprout on my skin, and how can I feel this good and look so damn old? Talk about your shock of recognition.
Another bad thing is that my muscles don’t have that boing in them anymore. When I run, each footfall feels like I’m landing from a height of five or six feet. There’s no spring left, just a firm thunk that reverberates up through my bones and internal organs. When I throw something, it doesn’t get where it’s supposed to go, not unless I put a high arc on it. This really sucks if you find yourself in a middle school faculty/student dodge ball game, and the kids positively dare you to throw at them so they can catch it with one hand and get you out of the game. I know. What’s a 61 year old man doing playing dodge ball? Here’s the skinny on that. Even though I am old, I still think I’m no more than 25 or 30. That’s the truth, and it’s very common. If you don’t believe me, stop and ask any older man walking down the street, and he’ll tell you that he feels like a young guy trapped in an old man’s body (and he will also appreciate your concern . . . maybe).
Oddly enough, this leads me to one of the good things I told you about. Since I still feel young, I still feel like having sex, and if I’m lucky enough to have another person to do it with, it’s still damn good. No more hang-ups about pregnancy, technique, fear of failure, etc. Yes, sometimes the equipment malfunctions, or non functions, or starts and stops like a car with a clogged carburetor, but that can be handled with one of several pharmaceuticals, or the deft use of other, more dexterous appendages. That way she’s happy, and you can go watch ESPN. Also, did I mention that middle-aged women, for the most part, have got this sex thing down pat? They are very good, very free, and very grateful. So if I can’t get out of the starting gate every once in a while, they roll with it and go watch Oprah. I’m telling you that If you can’t laugh during middle-aged sex, you’re just not doing it right.
Ok, back to the bad. As you age you become invisible to various segments of the younger population. Cute young girls no longer see that twinkle in your eye as you flirt with them. At best they look right through you, and at worst they think you’re cute. If any young women are out there, pay attention here. Do not call an older man “cute.” Just smile and wink and he’ll be happy. He doesn’t really want you, he just wants to feel that such a thing might be possible, even when he knows that he doesn’t really want a relationship with someone who didn’t exist when Kennedy was shot. Think of it as a random act of kindness to someone else’s father. Now this invisibility thing also happens to women, and men and women together, whenever they go out to a restaurant. Waitpersons of all ages, genders, and ethnic persuasions no longer recognize your waving hand in their visible spectrum. Yes, they do get tired of listening to us order water without ice, steamed vegetables (without cauliflower of course) instead of the potatoes, and be sure that the fish is cooked well. Ok, maybe some of us don’t tip all that well, but some of us do, or at least we would if you’d stop by our table more frequently than Haley’s comet.
Once more, unto the good. Wisdom. If you live into your sixties and beyond you can’t help but learn a whole lot about life, and occasionally you can get someone (except your own children) to listen. Put ammonia on a bee sting. Wash baseball caps in the dishwasher. Pick up a baby when he cries, and for God’s sake, walk him out of the restaurant until he feels better. When playing Blackjack, don’t split queens. Fall in love, completely and deeply, but if it doesn’t work out, know that the gaping hole in your heart will mend. Then have the courage to do it again. The best car is the one that doesn’t let you down. If you get in an argument with your spouse, no one wins, so don’t argue in the first place. It’s best not to climb past the third highest step on a ladder. And ultimately you realize that all things, both good and bad, will eventually end – one way or another.
It was about a year ago. We sat there eating wonton soup and an appetizer plate and talked of nothing. We had just seen a blockbuster movie sequel, "Pirates of the Caribbean II, Dead Man's Chest." Another sequel that had lost its way -- all action and spectacle and not enough of the characters that had charmed us in the original. Everything comes out of a computer now, and she asked me if I thought the parrot was real. “Hell,” I said, “I don’t know if Johnny Depp was real.”
She looked frail and old, like she had just come through a serious illness. That’s because she had done just that. We’d been dating about three years and we were comfortable together. We enjoyed each other’s company and had a good time going out, but there was not much excitement in the relationship except in the bedroom, and I have no idea where that came from. The rest of our time together she felt comfortable, like a pair of favorite slippers.
I was never in love with her. She knew that and said it was fine with her that way. I think she may have loved me but always said she was “fond of me.” Probably didn’t want to scare me off. At two years I was ready to break it off, but then she got cancer. How do you break up with someone with cancer, pancreas cancer at that? So I hung around figuring she would either get better or die. I just couldn’t dump her then, you know? It just didn’t seem like the right thing to do. So she got better. Good for her. I know that’s not supposed to happen but they caught it early through a fluke and that cancer won’t kill her. I guess she’ll have to wait for the next one like the rest of us.
So another year went by while she recovered, and my disquiet had been growing – another kind of malignancy. It felt like the only thing we had going for us was inertia. Inertia fueled by comfort and sex. Most people my age would be content with that, but I grew more and more restless, and it was starting to show. I didn’t meet her eyes when we talked and I seemed to be snapping at her more and more. I’m was also weary of having to shout at her because her hearing was shot. So was her sense of smell. Too bad I didn’t have gas, she’d have been the perfect companion. On the plus side she had her very own handicapped parking placard, so we got fantastic parking spots. Comfort, sex, and good parking. That might be enough for some men my age, but I wanted more. Silly me, I thought that love might still be out there for me, just one girlfriend away.
That night, after the movie and soup, I thought it was time to break things off. We went back to my place, but even then I wasn’t sure. I once had an old dog who was dying, not in pain, but near the end of his life. The day we put him down he looked up at me, as if to say, “Couldn’t we do this tomorrow, or maybe next week?” So I’m thinking, "Why tell her tonight, why not tomorrow, or maybe next week? Why is this the night I choose to hurt her?" Ambivalent to the end, I am sitting there, not knowing if I’m going to sleep with her or leave her. Smart money’s on my dick.
She asks me to dim the lights. Gratefully, I do. She asks me if I want to smoke some dope, or have some wine. She wants me and I can be so easily had. “Not tonight,” I say. I look at her face. There is a stillness to her. She is smiling but I think she knows what’s coming. I feel the air from the ceiling fan wash down over me. I see the flowers on her blouse -- bright, red blossoms that hold their own in the dimness. I tell her that I need more in a relationship and that I want to see other people. We talk, say nothing, and do not touch. She smiles again, and in her smile, that I am looking at for the first time in months, I see the ghost of the beautiful, young woman she once was, long before we met. I wish I had known her then. Maybe I would have fallen in love with her, and grown slowly older with her, and always seen her through my memories. But my memories belong to someone else, and I can’t pretend anymore. More silence. We hug for a long time. The sound of the waves on the beach has stopped and my heart has stopped, and I’m not sure I can ever get it started again.
She collects her robe and toothbrush. I drive her home.
About a month ago, I received an email from her daughters. That cancer we thought she had beaten got up off the canvas and sucker punched her. I had seen her about three months ago, and she looked and said she felt fine. We had become friends, and I’m sorry that I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. Nothing makes you know you are getting older more than when you hear that someone your age, or younger even, has died. I don’t really know how to handle something like that. I guess that’s a wisdom I haven’t acquired yet. When I got the news, I called her house hoping to speak with her daughters. The voice of my friend was still on her answering machine, “Of course I’ll call you back,” she said. Our last night together flashed back and my breath caught in my throat, and again my heart stood still. Several seconds of a lifetime passed by, as my computer screen in front of me lost focus, and finally I whispered, “It’s Milt. I just called to say hi.” I don’t know why I did that. It just seemed like the right thing to do.
First thing you should understand is that there is good and bad about getting on in life. We all tend to focus on the bad things, because these usually involve some kind of loss, and the losses are obvious, maybe not right away but one day you notice them like you notice being hit with a water balloon. For instance, every day I shave in front of a mirror. Most men do this, so you’d think that we’d have a pretty good idea of what we look like. Not so. When I shave, I’m not looking at my face, I’m looking at a part of my face that the razor is passing over (or slicing through depending on how steady my hand is). Then I look at my hair while I brush it (not much left – I know each of them by name), and my teeth while I brush them. Every so often, I have to look at my ears, nose, or eyebrows so I can deal with a plague of unwanted hair growth in those areas. See? All of these are pesky bad things. But once in a while I stand back and gaze at the whole picture of the me that the world sees. Holy shit, who’s the old guy? When did my hair get so gray, when did all those little spots and bumps sprout on my skin, and how can I feel this good and look so damn old? Talk about your shock of recognition.
Another bad thing is that my muscles don’t have that boing in them anymore. When I run, each footfall feels like I’m landing from a height of five or six feet. There’s no spring left, just a firm thunk that reverberates up through my bones and internal organs. When I throw something, it doesn’t get where it’s supposed to go, not unless I put a high arc on it. This really sucks if you find yourself in a middle school faculty/student dodge ball game, and the kids positively dare you to throw at them so they can catch it with one hand and get you out of the game. I know. What’s a 61 year old man doing playing dodge ball? Here’s the skinny on that. Even though I am old, I still think I’m no more than 25 or 30. That’s the truth, and it’s very common. If you don’t believe me, stop and ask any older man walking down the street, and he’ll tell you that he feels like a young guy trapped in an old man’s body (and he will also appreciate your concern . . . maybe).
Oddly enough, this leads me to one of the good things I told you about. Since I still feel young, I still feel like having sex, and if I’m lucky enough to have another person to do it with, it’s still damn good. No more hang-ups about pregnancy, technique, fear of failure, etc. Yes, sometimes the equipment malfunctions, or non functions, or starts and stops like a car with a clogged carburetor, but that can be handled with one of several pharmaceuticals, or the deft use of other, more dexterous appendages. That way she’s happy, and you can go watch ESPN. Also, did I mention that middle-aged women, for the most part, have got this sex thing down pat? They are very good, very free, and very grateful. So if I can’t get out of the starting gate every once in a while, they roll with it and go watch Oprah. I’m telling you that If you can’t laugh during middle-aged sex, you’re just not doing it right.
Ok, back to the bad. As you age you become invisible to various segments of the younger population. Cute young girls no longer see that twinkle in your eye as you flirt with them. At best they look right through you, and at worst they think you’re cute. If any young women are out there, pay attention here. Do not call an older man “cute.” Just smile and wink and he’ll be happy. He doesn’t really want you, he just wants to feel that such a thing might be possible, even when he knows that he doesn’t really want a relationship with someone who didn’t exist when Kennedy was shot. Think of it as a random act of kindness to someone else’s father. Now this invisibility thing also happens to women, and men and women together, whenever they go out to a restaurant. Waitpersons of all ages, genders, and ethnic persuasions no longer recognize your waving hand in their visible spectrum. Yes, they do get tired of listening to us order water without ice, steamed vegetables (without cauliflower of course) instead of the potatoes, and be sure that the fish is cooked well. Ok, maybe some of us don’t tip all that well, but some of us do, or at least we would if you’d stop by our table more frequently than Haley’s comet.
Once more, unto the good. Wisdom. If you live into your sixties and beyond you can’t help but learn a whole lot about life, and occasionally you can get someone (except your own children) to listen. Put ammonia on a bee sting. Wash baseball caps in the dishwasher. Pick up a baby when he cries, and for God’s sake, walk him out of the restaurant until he feels better. When playing Blackjack, don’t split queens. Fall in love, completely and deeply, but if it doesn’t work out, know that the gaping hole in your heart will mend. Then have the courage to do it again. The best car is the one that doesn’t let you down. If you get in an argument with your spouse, no one wins, so don’t argue in the first place. It’s best not to climb past the third highest step on a ladder. And ultimately you realize that all things, both good and bad, will eventually end – one way or another.
It was about a year ago. We sat there eating wonton soup and an appetizer plate and talked of nothing. We had just seen a blockbuster movie sequel, "Pirates of the Caribbean II, Dead Man's Chest." Another sequel that had lost its way -- all action and spectacle and not enough of the characters that had charmed us in the original. Everything comes out of a computer now, and she asked me if I thought the parrot was real. “Hell,” I said, “I don’t know if Johnny Depp was real.”
She looked frail and old, like she had just come through a serious illness. That’s because she had done just that. We’d been dating about three years and we were comfortable together. We enjoyed each other’s company and had a good time going out, but there was not much excitement in the relationship except in the bedroom, and I have no idea where that came from. The rest of our time together she felt comfortable, like a pair of favorite slippers.
I was never in love with her. She knew that and said it was fine with her that way. I think she may have loved me but always said she was “fond of me.” Probably didn’t want to scare me off. At two years I was ready to break it off, but then she got cancer. How do you break up with someone with cancer, pancreas cancer at that? So I hung around figuring she would either get better or die. I just couldn’t dump her then, you know? It just didn’t seem like the right thing to do. So she got better. Good for her. I know that’s not supposed to happen but they caught it early through a fluke and that cancer won’t kill her. I guess she’ll have to wait for the next one like the rest of us.
So another year went by while she recovered, and my disquiet had been growing – another kind of malignancy. It felt like the only thing we had going for us was inertia. Inertia fueled by comfort and sex. Most people my age would be content with that, but I grew more and more restless, and it was starting to show. I didn’t meet her eyes when we talked and I seemed to be snapping at her more and more. I’m was also weary of having to shout at her because her hearing was shot. So was her sense of smell. Too bad I didn’t have gas, she’d have been the perfect companion. On the plus side she had her very own handicapped parking placard, so we got fantastic parking spots. Comfort, sex, and good parking. That might be enough for some men my age, but I wanted more. Silly me, I thought that love might still be out there for me, just one girlfriend away.
That night, after the movie and soup, I thought it was time to break things off. We went back to my place, but even then I wasn’t sure. I once had an old dog who was dying, not in pain, but near the end of his life. The day we put him down he looked up at me, as if to say, “Couldn’t we do this tomorrow, or maybe next week?” So I’m thinking, "Why tell her tonight, why not tomorrow, or maybe next week? Why is this the night I choose to hurt her?" Ambivalent to the end, I am sitting there, not knowing if I’m going to sleep with her or leave her. Smart money’s on my dick.
She asks me to dim the lights. Gratefully, I do. She asks me if I want to smoke some dope, or have some wine. She wants me and I can be so easily had. “Not tonight,” I say. I look at her face. There is a stillness to her. She is smiling but I think she knows what’s coming. I feel the air from the ceiling fan wash down over me. I see the flowers on her blouse -- bright, red blossoms that hold their own in the dimness. I tell her that I need more in a relationship and that I want to see other people. We talk, say nothing, and do not touch. She smiles again, and in her smile, that I am looking at for the first time in months, I see the ghost of the beautiful, young woman she once was, long before we met. I wish I had known her then. Maybe I would have fallen in love with her, and grown slowly older with her, and always seen her through my memories. But my memories belong to someone else, and I can’t pretend anymore. More silence. We hug for a long time. The sound of the waves on the beach has stopped and my heart has stopped, and I’m not sure I can ever get it started again.
She collects her robe and toothbrush. I drive her home.
About a month ago, I received an email from her daughters. That cancer we thought she had beaten got up off the canvas and sucker punched her. I had seen her about three months ago, and she looked and said she felt fine. We had become friends, and I’m sorry that I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. Nothing makes you know you are getting older more than when you hear that someone your age, or younger even, has died. I don’t really know how to handle something like that. I guess that’s a wisdom I haven’t acquired yet. When I got the news, I called her house hoping to speak with her daughters. The voice of my friend was still on her answering machine, “Of course I’ll call you back,” she said. Our last night together flashed back and my breath caught in my throat, and again my heart stood still. Several seconds of a lifetime passed by, as my computer screen in front of me lost focus, and finally I whispered, “It’s Milt. I just called to say hi.” I don’t know why I did that. It just seemed like the right thing to do.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
A Cigar is Never Just a Smoke
A cigar is not a thing usually shared. You don’t pass a cigar from mouth to mouth. Well, at least men don’t do that. I don’t even think cigar smoking women would do that. But, a few years back, my younger son had come to visit with me in Seattle where I was managing a tour to promote Fruitopia, Coca Cola’s superfluous answer to Snapple. His name is Zach. His older brother is Ari. First one “A,” last one “Z.” It just came out that way, but I like to tell people we did it on purpose in order to keep the universe in balance.
It was Ari, as our firstborn, who seemed to draw from his mother and I all the energy and willingness to go on adventures with him. We were young enough to take in Disneyland and the Renaissance Faire, and see it through his eyes. We even did “Small World” enough times to permanently scar our brains with that insipid tune. (I know, now you’re singing it too. Sorry.) Zach, being second, often missed out on the willingness of his parents to schlep somewhere, because we’d done it with Ari, and we were getting older and more easily tired. We took him to Disneyland for sure, but we didn’t stay quite as long. He never did get to see the Renaissance Faire. (We never took either of them to Magic Mountain because I didn’t want them to see their father cry, or throw up, or both.) Second is just not the same as first. Ari went on a trip with me to Hawaii. Zach, at age 27, reminds me to this day that I still owe him one of those. I hope it might still happen, I really do.
It always seemed to Zach that Ari got the better deal – first one to the toys, first one to get a dog, and he would always be destined to tread on the road more traveled. It wasn’t until he got to school that Zach, faced with the taunts of a bully, realized with utmost glee, that only he could have a big brother to look out for him – Ari would never have his very own protector. That was some consolation for son number two.
So as I was saying, Zach joined me in Seattle, and that night the guys on the tour went out and got some really cheap-shit cigars, Swisher Sweets I believe. Blech! But the night wasn’t about the cigars, it was men playing pool, drinking, laughing and smoking cigars together. Zach was about seventeen at the time, and had never smoked a cigar. He never had smoked a cigarette either, or so I thought in my fatherly naiveté. So when we all lit up I offered him one. He was reluctant so I just passed mine to him and told him to try it. (I sound like a drug pusher, don’t I?). He smoked a little and he liked it, so we continued to pass the cigar back and forth like a joint. Not that he’d ever had weed at that time in his life. More fatherly naiveté I fear. So we had a great time, and Zach loved being accepted among the men. With his easy humor, he more than held his own.
About a month later, back in Los Angeles, Zach came over to my apartment and we sat out on my balcony and again shared one cigar, albeit this time of better quality. And as we sat there on a warm Summer evening, we started to talk, father and son stuff for sure, but for the first time as men, without the barrier of parent child roles between us. We talked about the divorce between his mother and me, and about the pain we both felt, and we talked about his travails with girls. I don’t remember all that we talked about, but there was an easiness to the conversation, and a caring that passed between us that we both acknowledged. It was one of those too few special times between father and son.
My father smoked four cigars a day, for the entire part of his life that I shared. Since my mother wouldn’t let him smoke in the house, that took some artful dodging, and as I think on it now, probably one of the reasons why he wasn’t home more. In his later years, when he had the money, he remodeled their ample apartment and he built himself a small room with a recliner, TV, and a whopper of an exhaust fan. When that thing was on, we had to tether the grandbabies, lest they be sucked out along with the smoke.
As a young boy I was never bothered by the smell of his cigars, even before the recliner days, so I spent many an hour with him, watching TV while he smoked and we talked, but only about the show or ball game we were watching. I think the reason the smoke smell never bothered me was simply because that was his smell. His clothes, his hair and skin, all smelled like . . . Pop. This ritual of ours continued into my adulthood and his old age in the recliner days, and I still can recall the sight of him falling asleep in that chair despite the considerable volume of the TV needed to overcome the noise of that fan-jet exhaust. (FYI, you know you are a senior when you find yourself falling asleep in front of the TV, just like your old man.)
So, as I sat alone on my apartment balcony after Zach left, finishing our cigar and my glass of Port, I realized that I had never had such an experience with my father. In all the twenty some odd years while I was an adult and he was still with us, he had never even offered me a cigar. I had no idea why not. I suppose it was fear of my mother, who surely would have killed him if she found the two of us puffing away, but she never came into our sanctum anyway. So there the question hung in the air, like the smoke I had just exhaled. Why not? The simplest explanation would be that he just didn’t think I would want to smoke, but I don’t really believe that’s the whole truth. My Pop, like many of his generation, was unwilling or unable to breach that boundary between father and son and accept me as a man, an equal. I never had a deep, real conversation with him in all our years together. I didn’t fault him for this, as I believed it was because I came along late in his life, and with the huge difference in our ages, I would always be in his eyes, the baby of the family. But it was also because he was incapable of any kind of heart to heart, any genuine closeness. I have since learned from my older brother that it was the same with him. My father would no more have looked us in the eye and shared his feelings with us than he would have gotten out of his recliner and gone fox hunting. In any event that fact that I and my day never had the kind of experience that Zach and I just shared, either with or without the accompaniment of fire and smoke, left me feeling sad, and more than a little bit cheated.
You see that cigar was a kind of talisman, a ritualistic object that my son and I shared – passed from me to him and back, a symbol of my acceptance of his elevation to manhood, and his acceptance of my descent from the mythical tower of omniscient Fatherhood. Those Native Americans knew what smoking was all about. For the first time as adults, Zach and I came together in shared sadness and joy. From that day forward we would treat each other more or less as equals in our strengths and weaknesses, and with a caring for each other that would forever more be somehow different, and special between us. Sure, I’ll always be Dad (or “Dude” as the little prick likes to call me) and he will always be my boy, but from that night forward we would see each other, always with love, but now eye to eye.
Zach and I have smoked cigars together on several occasions since that night, some ten years ago. I don’t really smoke that often, and I think he only smokes with me, but in any event, now he gets one of his own (of course, I’m still buying them). And each time we repeat our father and son ritual, we seem to have the most significant and genuinely intimate conversations.
I remember now that the last time we smoked together, we were in Laughlin, Nevada, where he and his brother, took me to celebrate my sixtieth birthday. We were outside on a path by the river, having consumed a wonderful meal and bottle of wine, and we all lit up. It was my birthday, and they had given be the best present I could ever wish for. I was in Dad Heaven. Then, while we walked, and smoked, and laughed at each other, an odd thing happened. Ari admitted that he didn’t really like cigars all that much, and crushed his under his shoe, while Zach and I continued to smoke as we walked along. I hadn’t thought about it until tonight, but as I sat down to write this story, it came to me that from the moment Ari dropped his cigar, Zach would always have something experiential with his Dad that is his alone, and that as far as his relationship with me is concerned, he will never again walk in his brother’s footsteps.
It was Ari, as our firstborn, who seemed to draw from his mother and I all the energy and willingness to go on adventures with him. We were young enough to take in Disneyland and the Renaissance Faire, and see it through his eyes. We even did “Small World” enough times to permanently scar our brains with that insipid tune. (I know, now you’re singing it too. Sorry.) Zach, being second, often missed out on the willingness of his parents to schlep somewhere, because we’d done it with Ari, and we were getting older and more easily tired. We took him to Disneyland for sure, but we didn’t stay quite as long. He never did get to see the Renaissance Faire. (We never took either of them to Magic Mountain because I didn’t want them to see their father cry, or throw up, or both.) Second is just not the same as first. Ari went on a trip with me to Hawaii. Zach, at age 27, reminds me to this day that I still owe him one of those. I hope it might still happen, I really do.
It always seemed to Zach that Ari got the better deal – first one to the toys, first one to get a dog, and he would always be destined to tread on the road more traveled. It wasn’t until he got to school that Zach, faced with the taunts of a bully, realized with utmost glee, that only he could have a big brother to look out for him – Ari would never have his very own protector. That was some consolation for son number two.
So as I was saying, Zach joined me in Seattle, and that night the guys on the tour went out and got some really cheap-shit cigars, Swisher Sweets I believe. Blech! But the night wasn’t about the cigars, it was men playing pool, drinking, laughing and smoking cigars together. Zach was about seventeen at the time, and had never smoked a cigar. He never had smoked a cigarette either, or so I thought in my fatherly naiveté. So when we all lit up I offered him one. He was reluctant so I just passed mine to him and told him to try it. (I sound like a drug pusher, don’t I?). He smoked a little and he liked it, so we continued to pass the cigar back and forth like a joint. Not that he’d ever had weed at that time in his life. More fatherly naiveté I fear. So we had a great time, and Zach loved being accepted among the men. With his easy humor, he more than held his own.
About a month later, back in Los Angeles, Zach came over to my apartment and we sat out on my balcony and again shared one cigar, albeit this time of better quality. And as we sat there on a warm Summer evening, we started to talk, father and son stuff for sure, but for the first time as men, without the barrier of parent child roles between us. We talked about the divorce between his mother and me, and about the pain we both felt, and we talked about his travails with girls. I don’t remember all that we talked about, but there was an easiness to the conversation, and a caring that passed between us that we both acknowledged. It was one of those too few special times between father and son.
My father smoked four cigars a day, for the entire part of his life that I shared. Since my mother wouldn’t let him smoke in the house, that took some artful dodging, and as I think on it now, probably one of the reasons why he wasn’t home more. In his later years, when he had the money, he remodeled their ample apartment and he built himself a small room with a recliner, TV, and a whopper of an exhaust fan. When that thing was on, we had to tether the grandbabies, lest they be sucked out along with the smoke.
As a young boy I was never bothered by the smell of his cigars, even before the recliner days, so I spent many an hour with him, watching TV while he smoked and we talked, but only about the show or ball game we were watching. I think the reason the smoke smell never bothered me was simply because that was his smell. His clothes, his hair and skin, all smelled like . . . Pop. This ritual of ours continued into my adulthood and his old age in the recliner days, and I still can recall the sight of him falling asleep in that chair despite the considerable volume of the TV needed to overcome the noise of that fan-jet exhaust. (FYI, you know you are a senior when you find yourself falling asleep in front of the TV, just like your old man.)
So, as I sat alone on my apartment balcony after Zach left, finishing our cigar and my glass of Port, I realized that I had never had such an experience with my father. In all the twenty some odd years while I was an adult and he was still with us, he had never even offered me a cigar. I had no idea why not. I suppose it was fear of my mother, who surely would have killed him if she found the two of us puffing away, but she never came into our sanctum anyway. So there the question hung in the air, like the smoke I had just exhaled. Why not? The simplest explanation would be that he just didn’t think I would want to smoke, but I don’t really believe that’s the whole truth. My Pop, like many of his generation, was unwilling or unable to breach that boundary between father and son and accept me as a man, an equal. I never had a deep, real conversation with him in all our years together. I didn’t fault him for this, as I believed it was because I came along late in his life, and with the huge difference in our ages, I would always be in his eyes, the baby of the family. But it was also because he was incapable of any kind of heart to heart, any genuine closeness. I have since learned from my older brother that it was the same with him. My father would no more have looked us in the eye and shared his feelings with us than he would have gotten out of his recliner and gone fox hunting. In any event that fact that I and my day never had the kind of experience that Zach and I just shared, either with or without the accompaniment of fire and smoke, left me feeling sad, and more than a little bit cheated.
You see that cigar was a kind of talisman, a ritualistic object that my son and I shared – passed from me to him and back, a symbol of my acceptance of his elevation to manhood, and his acceptance of my descent from the mythical tower of omniscient Fatherhood. Those Native Americans knew what smoking was all about. For the first time as adults, Zach and I came together in shared sadness and joy. From that day forward we would treat each other more or less as equals in our strengths and weaknesses, and with a caring for each other that would forever more be somehow different, and special between us. Sure, I’ll always be Dad (or “Dude” as the little prick likes to call me) and he will always be my boy, but from that night forward we would see each other, always with love, but now eye to eye.
Zach and I have smoked cigars together on several occasions since that night, some ten years ago. I don’t really smoke that often, and I think he only smokes with me, but in any event, now he gets one of his own (of course, I’m still buying them). And each time we repeat our father and son ritual, we seem to have the most significant and genuinely intimate conversations.
I remember now that the last time we smoked together, we were in Laughlin, Nevada, where he and his brother, took me to celebrate my sixtieth birthday. We were outside on a path by the river, having consumed a wonderful meal and bottle of wine, and we all lit up. It was my birthday, and they had given be the best present I could ever wish for. I was in Dad Heaven. Then, while we walked, and smoked, and laughed at each other, an odd thing happened. Ari admitted that he didn’t really like cigars all that much, and crushed his under his shoe, while Zach and I continued to smoke as we walked along. I hadn’t thought about it until tonight, but as I sat down to write this story, it came to me that from the moment Ari dropped his cigar, Zach would always have something experiential with his Dad that is his alone, and that as far as his relationship with me is concerned, he will never again walk in his brother’s footsteps.
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