Working twelve hour days for weeks on end is enough to stretch anyone’s limit. At this year’s National Stage Combat Workshop, there was plenty of opportunity to find my own. For safety’s sake one’s mind need be operating at peak efficiency at all times – if you tune out, you miss a bit of choreography and a sword gets thrust at the wrong bits. The physical demands are unique unless your day job requires slinging steel at your coworkers (if it does, please let me know if you’re hiring). As the brain fries and the muscles waver, it becomes more and more critical to put effort into making certain the choreography is solid, and you’d damn well better not grow too confident.
Test Day was the last day of the workshop. It involved four tests: Smallsword, Knife, Broadsword & Shield, and Quarterstaff. Each test is conducted by two partners performing a scene of no more than three minutes, containing a number of required moves on behalf of both students. A Basic Pass means having met the minimum standard of technical skill, and a Recommended Pass means having exceeded that standard in the eyes of the adjudicator.
In the eight years since I started learning stage combat I’ve never failed a Skills Proficiency Test or Renewal, nor have I seen it happen.
Safe to say I was most excited by the Sword & Shield test, as this was the only one of that day’s four weapons for which I have never been tested. Sometimes I really enjoy playing into my type. Also my partner and I picked the arena scene from Thor Ragnarok, so I got to be a big guy playing the Big Guy while doing Big Guy Things. Plus my Sword and Shield partner was a woman who’s actual name is Thor, named for the Marvel character, so the only way we could get nerdier is if we rolled a D20 before each strike.
The Sword & Shield test was the first one after lunch. I was battling the results of insomnia and overcoming the emotional aftermath of the Smallsword and Knife tests in the morning. Indigestion, coffee, and a nervous stomach had me bent over in the men’s room for a few minutes for the second time that day, and ibuprofen was keeping my injuries quiet for the moment.
Though the room was the same stage upon which we’d been practicing for weeks and the audience supportive and friendly, test day casts a layer of tension and formality which alters the tone. We may have spent 30 contact hours with this weapon, refining and perfecting our technique, but the only thing that matters is what happens within the next 3 minutes or less. It’s the kind of setup that seems fine when it works in your favor, but totally unfair should something go wrong for the first time during the test.
Working in my favor, Thor is an excellent combat partner. Chuck and Adam are phenomenal instructors. I’ve been at this discipline for years, been through the testing process several times, and had been working vigorously for months to prepare for this moment. In the end, something still went wrong.
Four moves into the fight, Thor punched me with her shield because that’s the choreography. I blocked with my own shield . . . ish. My arm was too close to my body and at the incorrect angle, so the edge of my own shield smacked me less than a finger’s width over my left eye. A two-inch gash started bleeding immediately, pumping harder from my adrenaline, freer for being thinned by caffeine and painkillers, but masked somewhat by the bandanna holding my hair out of the way.
I felt pain, and then numbed. My vision never blurred, I never blacked out or felt dizzy, so I didn’t stop the fight. Thor pressed the attack as designed, and I defended properly. I figured she would eventually call hold. Or maybe it would come from one of the Fight Masters judging the scene, or the instructors standing in the wings, or in the audience. No one did. We kept fighting.
I saw drops of crimson fall past my eye, the smell sharp and unfamiliar. I tried to let them fall onto my dark shirt so no one would notice. “If we don’t finish this now,” I thought, “we might not get another chance. Keep going until they force you to stop.” No one forced us to stop.
Less than a minute later the fight was over. By the time we took our bows and left the stage, the left side of my face was obviously marred. The staff EMT sat me down, cleaned me off, and patched me up with just enough time to pick up a quarterstaff and meet my partner, Michael, for our next test. We did a scene from Shrek (I was Shrek, and Michael was Donkey. Test day is awesome).
Then I got a ride to the emergency room, and was very excited to see an episode of Judge Judy while I waited for the nurse.
It wasn’t until a few days later that I got home and learned the test results online. Basic Pass for Smallsword and Knife. Recommended Pass for Quarterstaff. No mention of Sword & Shield, which I supposed to mean I had failed. It would be another day before it was updated with “Incomplete or Not Passed”.
Some of the proudest moments in my life have come from my work in this field. The praise is sweet, and the victories fulfilling. I always expected that failure, should it ever come, would devastate me. This one didn’t. Maybe because I saw it coming. Maybe because I have a long track record of successes to balance the scale. Maybe because it’s not like they kicked me out and stamped my ass with “DO NOT RETURN”.
In the end, I’m privileged to be able to live in a city so accessible to classes which will let me try again soon. This isn’t over for me, and my dream of rising through the ranks of the organization is still alive and well supported. Now, when I look in the mirror, I’ll always be able to see the scar to remind me that success is never a foregone conclusion.
A tattoo on my back reads, “Fall down seven times, stand up eight.” I guess I’m just living my truth.
Friday, August 17, 2018
Sunday, August 5, 2018
In Spite Of
Week Two of Sword Fight Summer Camp has ended.
The lessons are insightful, the instructors are an excellent blend of patient and inspirational, and my fellow students meet every challenge with playful dedication. But it hurts.
My struggle with my weight has been a perpetual part of my story, and will probably continue for the rest of my days. My days spent in the Chicago burlesque scene have helped me to accept my body’s appearance; unlike public school, no one is making fun of me for being fat. Not to my face, anyway. Not that I can tell. I still don’t like the way I look in the mirror, but these days that’s all about me. I don’t carry that over into what other people probably think of me.
But it’s still having a negative effect. My legs can’t handle this kind of sustained strain and impact. My knees are giving out and my heels can’t handle flexing past ninety degrees. Stairs give me anxiety, and oddly, it’s worse going down than up. I have all the skills and knowledge for success, but I just cannot make my body go through some of these motions without crumpling in pain, like being jabbed by a one-inch diameter needle.
These are problems I developed many years and fifty pounds ago, and that’s all without even getting into my lower and upper back reuniting for a crippling reunion tour. The other night it took six hours to fall asleep because every time I rolled over I felt my shoulder blades clamp onto my spine like a vicious dog trying to snap a femur in half.
I’m not constantly despondent, but something always hurts. I’m tired of it. This isn’t pain born from fatigue and sore muscles, and it’s nothing to be solved with some Epsom salts and a bit of stretching. It’s just . . . part of who I am now. Like a scar.
The most fucked up part is that I don’t understand how I’m exercising 8 out of 12 hours and still getting fatter.
I am having fun in spite of the issues. I’m getting advice and personal connections to start aiming the trajectory of my career so that I can make this a permanent part of my life. Heh. Yeah, even with all of this complaining, it’s still worth going through it all so that I can keep pretending to slash, stab, whack and punch people.
At least it makes the pained reactions come from a place of truth.
The lessons are insightful, the instructors are an excellent blend of patient and inspirational, and my fellow students meet every challenge with playful dedication. But it hurts.
My struggle with my weight has been a perpetual part of my story, and will probably continue for the rest of my days. My days spent in the Chicago burlesque scene have helped me to accept my body’s appearance; unlike public school, no one is making fun of me for being fat. Not to my face, anyway. Not that I can tell. I still don’t like the way I look in the mirror, but these days that’s all about me. I don’t carry that over into what other people probably think of me.
But it’s still having a negative effect. My legs can’t handle this kind of sustained strain and impact. My knees are giving out and my heels can’t handle flexing past ninety degrees. Stairs give me anxiety, and oddly, it’s worse going down than up. I have all the skills and knowledge for success, but I just cannot make my body go through some of these motions without crumpling in pain, like being jabbed by a one-inch diameter needle.
These are problems I developed many years and fifty pounds ago, and that’s all without even getting into my lower and upper back reuniting for a crippling reunion tour. The other night it took six hours to fall asleep because every time I rolled over I felt my shoulder blades clamp onto my spine like a vicious dog trying to snap a femur in half.
I’m not constantly despondent, but something always hurts. I’m tired of it. This isn’t pain born from fatigue and sore muscles, and it’s nothing to be solved with some Epsom salts and a bit of stretching. It’s just . . . part of who I am now. Like a scar.
The most fucked up part is that I don’t understand how I’m exercising 8 out of 12 hours and still getting fatter.
I am having fun in spite of the issues. I’m getting advice and personal connections to start aiming the trajectory of my career so that I can make this a permanent part of my life. Heh. Yeah, even with all of this complaining, it’s still worth going through it all so that I can keep pretending to slash, stab, whack and punch people.
At least it makes the pained reactions come from a place of truth.
Sunday, July 29, 2018
Sword Fight Summer Camp
I was heavily into martial arts when I was a kid. Akin to so many American children, Karate was my first foray, but it didn’t last long. I couldn’t transfer the use of skills from thought to instinct, and thus I never earned my instructor’s permission to spar with the other students. Absent his blessing I couldn’t develop any confidence of my own. I finally quit out of embarrassment. I was seven.
I tried again as an adult, starting with Brazilian Jiu Jitsu and moving on to Tae Kwon Do. Physically challenging and mentally engaging, it required focus and control over one’s limbs unlike- well, unlike anything video games had offered. For someone who’s body image issues include a fear of being clumsy, it felt like a genuine path toward being treated like a normal person instead of an oaf.
By my late 20s I recognized it was impractical. I wasn’t getting into fights all the time. All throughout school I had been bullied enough to become a pacifist, and cultivated an intimidating appearance to keep the punks from punching me (easy enough for a person my size). As I was approaching my 30s, spending money on defense classes was more expensive than I could manage, and ultimately too much to justify. I still missed it, though.
In my second year of grad school I found the perfect replacement with stage combat. It required the same level of physical challenge, the same quality of mental discipline, the same character of dexterity and control over my body. More importantly, it was directly related to my career; when the stage directions read “They fight,” the scene is more effective when the actors aren’t falling over themselves.
I joined the Society of American Fight Directors with the goal of learning every skill that could be taught and rising through their ranks. Every time I reached a new level I’d stretch for the next one. Once I’d earned the rank of Advanced Actor Combatant, I asked my instructor the same question I had so many times before: “What’s next?” This time the answer kicked me in the teeth and grounded my advancement.
“First, you have to be a dues-paying member for five years,” he said. That meant I had four years to go. “In the meantime,” he told me, “find classes to assist and get some choreography jobs.” Didn’t work for me. I knew I hadn’t the experience to choreograph, and once I graduated I couldn’t afford to continue training. The Winter Wonderland workshop in Chicago was the only one I could attend without traveling, and even that tuition was beyond my reasonable reach. I could neither develop my skills further nor network my way into an assistantship. I was deadlocked, agonizing the loss of What Could Have Been.
For neither the first nor the last time, a few years later my Lady Love opened the door for me. She knew how much I missed it, and told me it wasn’t fair that she should pursue her craft through travel and workshops and I wasn’t. She told me, straight out, “You’re going to Winter Wonderland this year.”
So I did.
I emerged from that week with a renewed vigor and enthusiasm. My appetite for the craft was sharpened like never before, my great heart grown fonder for the absence. What’s more – I was still good at it, which was a relief. I knew this was something I would never again be able to live without, so long as I have the choice.
I write this now sitting in the dining hall of Louisiana Tech University, attending for the first time the National Stage Combat Workshop; a 3 week intensive which puts a weapon in my hand almost 9 out of every 12 hours, six days a week. The demands on my body and mind have rarely been so steep, and collapse from exhaustion is a guarantee.
But so is the satisfaction.
Week One is over, and only one day of rest separates what we’ve learned from what lies ahead. I refuse to back off ever, ever again.
I tried again as an adult, starting with Brazilian Jiu Jitsu and moving on to Tae Kwon Do. Physically challenging and mentally engaging, it required focus and control over one’s limbs unlike- well, unlike anything video games had offered. For someone who’s body image issues include a fear of being clumsy, it felt like a genuine path toward being treated like a normal person instead of an oaf.
By my late 20s I recognized it was impractical. I wasn’t getting into fights all the time. All throughout school I had been bullied enough to become a pacifist, and cultivated an intimidating appearance to keep the punks from punching me (easy enough for a person my size). As I was approaching my 30s, spending money on defense classes was more expensive than I could manage, and ultimately too much to justify. I still missed it, though.
In my second year of grad school I found the perfect replacement with stage combat. It required the same level of physical challenge, the same quality of mental discipline, the same character of dexterity and control over my body. More importantly, it was directly related to my career; when the stage directions read “They fight,” the scene is more effective when the actors aren’t falling over themselves.
I joined the Society of American Fight Directors with the goal of learning every skill that could be taught and rising through their ranks. Every time I reached a new level I’d stretch for the next one. Once I’d earned the rank of Advanced Actor Combatant, I asked my instructor the same question I had so many times before: “What’s next?” This time the answer kicked me in the teeth and grounded my advancement.
“First, you have to be a dues-paying member for five years,” he said. That meant I had four years to go. “In the meantime,” he told me, “find classes to assist and get some choreography jobs.” Didn’t work for me. I knew I hadn’t the experience to choreograph, and once I graduated I couldn’t afford to continue training. The Winter Wonderland workshop in Chicago was the only one I could attend without traveling, and even that tuition was beyond my reasonable reach. I could neither develop my skills further nor network my way into an assistantship. I was deadlocked, agonizing the loss of What Could Have Been.
For neither the first nor the last time, a few years later my Lady Love opened the door for me. She knew how much I missed it, and told me it wasn’t fair that she should pursue her craft through travel and workshops and I wasn’t. She told me, straight out, “You’re going to Winter Wonderland this year.”
So I did.
I emerged from that week with a renewed vigor and enthusiasm. My appetite for the craft was sharpened like never before, my great heart grown fonder for the absence. What’s more – I was still good at it, which was a relief. I knew this was something I would never again be able to live without, so long as I have the choice.
I write this now sitting in the dining hall of Louisiana Tech University, attending for the first time the National Stage Combat Workshop; a 3 week intensive which puts a weapon in my hand almost 9 out of every 12 hours, six days a week. The demands on my body and mind have rarely been so steep, and collapse from exhaustion is a guarantee.
But so is the satisfaction.
Week One is over, and only one day of rest separates what we’ve learned from what lies ahead. I refuse to back off ever, ever again.
Tuesday, April 17, 2018
Eulogy
Part Six.
I was afraid of him.
Not because I thought he would beat me up. Because he had the artistic talent I aspired to and the intellect I wanted and the boldness I never felt I deserved.
I never understood why he liked my friendship, so I was constantly afraid of losing it. I knew I could make him laugh, but that only ever made me feel like a joke. I respected him so deeply that hanging around him was a constant, self-imposed challenge to be worthy of his company. To earn the right to hear his opinions, to deserve to debate the merits of science against the merits of art. He would respect your opposing point of view the way one respects a charging bull; powerful, but stupid, and could not be suffered to run around unchecked.
Once he started college he became an electrical engineer, and for years I was heartbroken. His drawings outclassed the sketches in any of the RPG books we would pore over. His writings held me captivated more than any published fiction I could purchase. I was afraid that he wasn’t living the life that would have led him to his best satisfaction, and I was saddened because my favorite artist had stopped producing art.
I finally challenged him about this life decision a handful of years ago. As he always did, he listened to everything I had to say, and considered deeply before responding. In the end I learned I was wrong. He had done right by himself. He wasn’t always successful and he wasn’t always happy, but he had walked the path that was right by him, secure in the knowledge that he would have made the same major decisions over again if he’d been given the option.
For many years I referred to Kevin as my oldest friend. More recently I would say, “On the day I got married there were eight people in the room. Kevin was one of them.” The first time I planned to get married I knew I wanted him as my Best Man. The second time, too. When I wed my Lady Love, my Charm, he was there as I’d always hoped he would be. Later I would realize that year had also seen the twentieth anniversary of the day I met him.
Whenever I’m trying to craft a project, eventually I hear his voice: “Sometimes you have to shoot the engineer and build the fucking thing.” The wisdom of da Vinci filtered through blunt, southern American charm.
He could cook, too.
Sometimes we wouldn’t speak for years, but he would cross my mind every day of my life. Jokes we shared, games we played, arguments we had, music we liked, movies we quoted, pranks we pulled on each other, all the mutual experiences ricochet and reverberate and make sympathetic imprints onto every corner of my life, from my kitchen counter to my bookshelf; from my computer chair to my driver’s seat.
The only people I’ve known longer, I’m related to.
In my mind, Kevin will always live in the present tense. His legacy and our relationship will shape the rest of my life, much the way it has since my earliest memories of him. I’ll lie down every night assured that if I am the best version of myself, it was because he inspired me to do so.
I miss him.
I was afraid of him.
Not because I thought he would beat me up. Because he had the artistic talent I aspired to and the intellect I wanted and the boldness I never felt I deserved.
I never understood why he liked my friendship, so I was constantly afraid of losing it. I knew I could make him laugh, but that only ever made me feel like a joke. I respected him so deeply that hanging around him was a constant, self-imposed challenge to be worthy of his company. To earn the right to hear his opinions, to deserve to debate the merits of science against the merits of art. He would respect your opposing point of view the way one respects a charging bull; powerful, but stupid, and could not be suffered to run around unchecked.
Once he started college he became an electrical engineer, and for years I was heartbroken. His drawings outclassed the sketches in any of the RPG books we would pore over. His writings held me captivated more than any published fiction I could purchase. I was afraid that he wasn’t living the life that would have led him to his best satisfaction, and I was saddened because my favorite artist had stopped producing art.
I finally challenged him about this life decision a handful of years ago. As he always did, he listened to everything I had to say, and considered deeply before responding. In the end I learned I was wrong. He had done right by himself. He wasn’t always successful and he wasn’t always happy, but he had walked the path that was right by him, secure in the knowledge that he would have made the same major decisions over again if he’d been given the option.
For many years I referred to Kevin as my oldest friend. More recently I would say, “On the day I got married there were eight people in the room. Kevin was one of them.” The first time I planned to get married I knew I wanted him as my Best Man. The second time, too. When I wed my Lady Love, my Charm, he was there as I’d always hoped he would be. Later I would realize that year had also seen the twentieth anniversary of the day I met him.
Whenever I’m trying to craft a project, eventually I hear his voice: “Sometimes you have to shoot the engineer and build the fucking thing.” The wisdom of da Vinci filtered through blunt, southern American charm.
He could cook, too.
Sometimes we wouldn’t speak for years, but he would cross my mind every day of my life. Jokes we shared, games we played, arguments we had, music we liked, movies we quoted, pranks we pulled on each other, all the mutual experiences ricochet and reverberate and make sympathetic imprints onto every corner of my life, from my kitchen counter to my bookshelf; from my computer chair to my driver’s seat.
The only people I’ve known longer, I’m related to.
In my mind, Kevin will always live in the present tense. His legacy and our relationship will shape the rest of my life, much the way it has since my earliest memories of him. I’ll lie down every night assured that if I am the best version of myself, it was because he inspired me to do so.
I miss him.
Wednesday, April 4, 2018
Acceptance
Part 5, In Which It Goes Just Like the Movies
I had made flight arrangements to return to Chicago on Friday, the day after the viewing. The day after I booked the flight I saw in his obituary that the burial would be on Saturday. My first reaction was to feel crushed; I had wanted to be there until the very end. I was embarrassed that I subconsciously figured the viewing would be the last thing. I wish I had asked someone before I started making flight plans, but the only person I knew how to contact was his fiancée; I didn’t want to trouble her any more than absolutely necessary.
I immediately started asking myself why this last bit was so important to me. Finally I decided that maybe it’s because that’s what happens in all the movies. It’s cold and rainy, the headstones are all grand and ornate and beautiful, and one person stands all by himself and says something fancy. Ultimately I let the notion go. Kevin wouldn’t give me shit one way or another.
All week long I kept getting the same question: Are you going to be there Saturday? It was easy to say no at first. I had already made travel arrangements. I had to go back to work. I couldn’t bear the cost of the penalty for changing the flight. But every time I was asked my excuse felt thinner. Weaker. Less worthy. I had been given the resources and the permission. I could have made it happen if I wanted to.
Eventually I came to realize the question had been more than casual. Slowly I gleaned that I wasn’t simply being asked. I was being invited. Requested directly by his siblings and his parents. “Will you?” turned into “I hope you can,” and I started figuring out logistics. When I heard, “Let me know if we can help you,” I fell headlong into an inevitable force akin to gravity, and started contacting everyone who needed to know that I’d be gone for two more days.
I awoke Saturday morning to grey light pouring in through the windows of my guest bedroom. Someone knocked and told me we’d be trying to leave half an hour earlier than planned, which meant I had to haul ass to make it happen. I did, and made it to the car in a respectable amount of time.
Cave Hill cemetery in Louisville is goddamn gorgeous. Every grave is a unique monument bearing ornate and detailed sculptures. During the drive late season snow had turned to sleet before finally succumbing to a mild, yet persistent rain. A small tent had been erected over the site, under which perhaps half of us were able to crowd for the final ritual.
Only two people stood to speak, the second of which was his Kevin’s father. He read from a small, leather bound notebook in which he had handwritten his words. What he said is not for me to share, but I can say this: he looked up once during the reading and his eyes met mine. Given the sentence he had just ended, I knew that there was no more appropriate nor necessary place for me to have been standing than right where I was at that time.
I got to say my own piece later – but that’s for later.
I had made flight arrangements to return to Chicago on Friday, the day after the viewing. The day after I booked the flight I saw in his obituary that the burial would be on Saturday. My first reaction was to feel crushed; I had wanted to be there until the very end. I was embarrassed that I subconsciously figured the viewing would be the last thing. I wish I had asked someone before I started making flight plans, but the only person I knew how to contact was his fiancée; I didn’t want to trouble her any more than absolutely necessary.
I immediately started asking myself why this last bit was so important to me. Finally I decided that maybe it’s because that’s what happens in all the movies. It’s cold and rainy, the headstones are all grand and ornate and beautiful, and one person stands all by himself and says something fancy. Ultimately I let the notion go. Kevin wouldn’t give me shit one way or another.
All week long I kept getting the same question: Are you going to be there Saturday? It was easy to say no at first. I had already made travel arrangements. I had to go back to work. I couldn’t bear the cost of the penalty for changing the flight. But every time I was asked my excuse felt thinner. Weaker. Less worthy. I had been given the resources and the permission. I could have made it happen if I wanted to.
Eventually I came to realize the question had been more than casual. Slowly I gleaned that I wasn’t simply being asked. I was being invited. Requested directly by his siblings and his parents. “Will you?” turned into “I hope you can,” and I started figuring out logistics. When I heard, “Let me know if we can help you,” I fell headlong into an inevitable force akin to gravity, and started contacting everyone who needed to know that I’d be gone for two more days.
I awoke Saturday morning to grey light pouring in through the windows of my guest bedroom. Someone knocked and told me we’d be trying to leave half an hour earlier than planned, which meant I had to haul ass to make it happen. I did, and made it to the car in a respectable amount of time.
Cave Hill cemetery in Louisville is goddamn gorgeous. Every grave is a unique monument bearing ornate and detailed sculptures. During the drive late season snow had turned to sleet before finally succumbing to a mild, yet persistent rain. A small tent had been erected over the site, under which perhaps half of us were able to crowd for the final ritual.
Only two people stood to speak, the second of which was his Kevin’s father. He read from a small, leather bound notebook in which he had handwritten his words. What he said is not for me to share, but I can say this: he looked up once during the reading and his eyes met mine. Given the sentence he had just ended, I knew that there was no more appropriate nor necessary place for me to have been standing than right where I was at that time.
I got to say my own piece later – but that’s for later.
Saturday, March 31, 2018
Interlude
Part Four, In Which an Old Acquaintance Gets a New Visitor
Before this month, the closest I’ve been to someone who died was named Kristin. It was five years ago. A brief text message broke the news. She had been combating cancer for about six months and I hadn’t noticed. We had lost touch but for the occasional social media comment, so I forgave myself for not knowing . . . . until I scrolled down her page a bit. She hadn't been hiding it.
Kristin was one of the Old Guard, the friends I made in the back half of high school and for whom I kept affection – if not in touch – through most of college. I’d only been back to Dallas once since she died, and that was to introduce my Lady Love to my childhood home during Christmas; it didn’t feel right to visit Kristin’s grave at that time. But this time I was in town for the specific purpose of attending a wake with the people who knew both him and her, so I figured I was In the Emotional Neighborhood.
I didn’t know exactly where she was. It took some scrolling before I was able to find her obituary. I knew that she’d spent her final months having moved up from Houston to be nearer her parents and brother, and I was correct to assume she hadn’t travelled far after her death. She was in Restland, a cemetery whose name is so on the nose I couldn’t take it seriously. I kept imagining clowns passing out pillows and shushing people, like a carnival held in a library. Every few square acres are uniquely named, separated by walkways and roadways to make the place easier to navigate. They call them ‘gardens’. Makes sense. It’s where you plant people.
The staff were very helpful in helping me locate her Bench, a large slab of stone this place carves your name and dates into if you’ve been cremated. I hadn’t known that. They also said she was in the bench. I didn’t ask.
I was handed a map and was given a rough location and a very inaccurate sense of how far I would have to walk to get there. I got a little lost. It took me most of an hour before I found it, checking the map from time to time, eventually forsaking the twisted pavement in favor of traipsing between headstones and apologizing to those whose names were etched or embossed into them.
The walk tired me out enough to shift my mood from somber to snarky. I considered and discarded several clever things I would say when I got there. Though I had known her for years I never got comfortable enough to be myself when I was around her. I had always regretted that she had only seen me for what I presented, never for who I was. Maybe I’m wrong.
Once I found her I sat down and made awkward small talk for a few minutes just like they do in the movies. I beat around the bush. I said all the things I wish I’d said when I had the chance.
I told her about Kevin’s death. He had been the one to tell me about hers, so it felt appropriate to bear the message on his behalf. I admitted I hadn’t cried yet. I told her I was curious and concerned about what that meant. I talked about the fact that thinking about that fact nearly brought the tears, but that talking about it made them go away again. I expressed frustration that I couldn’t find an emotional release. “Then again,” I said, "I’ve been on some quality antidepressants these days, so maybe that’s getting in the way of my catharsis.”
Then I laughed myself stupid. It was the strongest emotional burst I’d felt since I heard the news. I took a little time to recognize and be grateful that it finally happened and that it felt so pleasant.
The walk back to the car was brisk, sunny, and quiet . . . . until I remembered that Kristin was, like the rest of the Old Guard, a fan of They Might Be Giants. I don’t know how common it is for someone to march between the markers of the brief lives of former Texans while singing Birdhouse In Your Soul at the top of his lungs, but anyone within earshot caught an earful that afternoon.
It was my first time for that, too.
Before this month, the closest I’ve been to someone who died was named Kristin. It was five years ago. A brief text message broke the news. She had been combating cancer for about six months and I hadn’t noticed. We had lost touch but for the occasional social media comment, so I forgave myself for not knowing . . . . until I scrolled down her page a bit. She hadn't been hiding it.
Kristin was one of the Old Guard, the friends I made in the back half of high school and for whom I kept affection – if not in touch – through most of college. I’d only been back to Dallas once since she died, and that was to introduce my Lady Love to my childhood home during Christmas; it didn’t feel right to visit Kristin’s grave at that time. But this time I was in town for the specific purpose of attending a wake with the people who knew both him and her, so I figured I was In the Emotional Neighborhood.
I didn’t know exactly where she was. It took some scrolling before I was able to find her obituary. I knew that she’d spent her final months having moved up from Houston to be nearer her parents and brother, and I was correct to assume she hadn’t travelled far after her death. She was in Restland, a cemetery whose name is so on the nose I couldn’t take it seriously. I kept imagining clowns passing out pillows and shushing people, like a carnival held in a library. Every few square acres are uniquely named, separated by walkways and roadways to make the place easier to navigate. They call them ‘gardens’. Makes sense. It’s where you plant people.
The staff were very helpful in helping me locate her Bench, a large slab of stone this place carves your name and dates into if you’ve been cremated. I hadn’t known that. They also said she was in the bench. I didn’t ask.
I was handed a map and was given a rough location and a very inaccurate sense of how far I would have to walk to get there. I got a little lost. It took me most of an hour before I found it, checking the map from time to time, eventually forsaking the twisted pavement in favor of traipsing between headstones and apologizing to those whose names were etched or embossed into them.
The walk tired me out enough to shift my mood from somber to snarky. I considered and discarded several clever things I would say when I got there. Though I had known her for years I never got comfortable enough to be myself when I was around her. I had always regretted that she had only seen me for what I presented, never for who I was. Maybe I’m wrong.
Once I found her I sat down and made awkward small talk for a few minutes just like they do in the movies. I beat around the bush. I said all the things I wish I’d said when I had the chance.
I told her about Kevin’s death. He had been the one to tell me about hers, so it felt appropriate to bear the message on his behalf. I admitted I hadn’t cried yet. I told her I was curious and concerned about what that meant. I talked about the fact that thinking about that fact nearly brought the tears, but that talking about it made them go away again. I expressed frustration that I couldn’t find an emotional release. “Then again,” I said, "I’ve been on some quality antidepressants these days, so maybe that’s getting in the way of my catharsis.”
Then I laughed myself stupid. It was the strongest emotional burst I’d felt since I heard the news. I took a little time to recognize and be grateful that it finally happened and that it felt so pleasant.
The walk back to the car was brisk, sunny, and quiet . . . . until I remembered that Kristin was, like the rest of the Old Guard, a fan of They Might Be Giants. I don’t know how common it is for someone to march between the markers of the brief lives of former Texans while singing Birdhouse In Your Soul at the top of his lungs, but anyone within earshot caught an earful that afternoon.
It was my first time for that, too.
Monday, March 26, 2018
Payback
Part Three, In Which Yours Truly Finally Shows
I’ve never been to Ohio for a proper visit. I helped Kevin get his stuff to Cincinnati in the mid aughts when he got a new job, but that was the only time. After I moved to Chicago he’d all but beg me to come down. He made friends he wanted to introduce me to. He fell in love and they moved in together and he wanted me to visit their home. His family was close by, and their Halloween celebrations are legendary.
For every reason he invited me, I always had another excuse. Didn’t have a car. Couldn’t afford airfare. Too busy. I felt bad every time I turned him down, but there was Always Later. Every time my wife would bring up the topic of going on vacation I would stress how much I needed to visit him before I went anywhere exotic, but the plans never materialized.
He sacrificed time with his family to be with me when I got married. I couldn’t do less than to be with him when they put him in the ground.
When a major event like this happens there can be any number of days or events before it feels real. It’s like experiencing the world’s most lucid dream. A piece of you is waiting for someone to come in and tell you it’s all a mistake, there was a major misunderstanding and you’re going to wake up tomorrow and none of this was actually happening, you’ve imagined it all. At some point reality will assert itself and you’ll realize it’s all true, but until then, it’s surreal as fuck.
The viewing was early Thursday evening. My Lady Love had flown in to be my support system, and not for the first time I knew I couldn’t have asked for a better life companion. She held my hand as we walked into the room where I knew his body lay, but I wasn’t ready to lay my eyes upon him just yet. I needed it to be a choice, not a surprise. I spoke with his family first, making a bit of small talk amidst the hugs and handshakes and condolences, all while pointedly not glancing around lest I lay eyes on him by accident. I finally took several deep breaths whispered some words of encouragement to myself before turning my face toward the opposite end of the room.
For the first time since I heard the news – the first time in years – I saw my friend’s face. Easily recognizable in profile. I wanted to hug him, but there was a coffin in the way.
I worked my way through the room, stopping from time to time to briefly chat with another family member. Finally I found myself not ten feet away, my Lady Love holding my arm. She noted me working up the strength to walk over and pay the proverbial Final Respects. I didn’t want to go . . . so I started chastising myself using his voice. In my mind I heard him calling me names, playfully mocking my discomfort. “Get over here, ya punk.” When I was finally ready Nikki clocked it, and she asked if I wanted her to go with me. “Not the first time,” I told her. She understood and let go of my arm, and I walked over to look my Best Man in the face. I tried to contain myself, but I couldn’t help but burst into laughter almost immediately.
That fucker still had Bitchy Resting Face. Of all the people in the room, I figure he had the most cause.
I’ve never been to Ohio for a proper visit. I helped Kevin get his stuff to Cincinnati in the mid aughts when he got a new job, but that was the only time. After I moved to Chicago he’d all but beg me to come down. He made friends he wanted to introduce me to. He fell in love and they moved in together and he wanted me to visit their home. His family was close by, and their Halloween celebrations are legendary.
For every reason he invited me, I always had another excuse. Didn’t have a car. Couldn’t afford airfare. Too busy. I felt bad every time I turned him down, but there was Always Later. Every time my wife would bring up the topic of going on vacation I would stress how much I needed to visit him before I went anywhere exotic, but the plans never materialized.
He sacrificed time with his family to be with me when I got married. I couldn’t do less than to be with him when they put him in the ground.
When a major event like this happens there can be any number of days or events before it feels real. It’s like experiencing the world’s most lucid dream. A piece of you is waiting for someone to come in and tell you it’s all a mistake, there was a major misunderstanding and you’re going to wake up tomorrow and none of this was actually happening, you’ve imagined it all. At some point reality will assert itself and you’ll realize it’s all true, but until then, it’s surreal as fuck.
The viewing was early Thursday evening. My Lady Love had flown in to be my support system, and not for the first time I knew I couldn’t have asked for a better life companion. She held my hand as we walked into the room where I knew his body lay, but I wasn’t ready to lay my eyes upon him just yet. I needed it to be a choice, not a surprise. I spoke with his family first, making a bit of small talk amidst the hugs and handshakes and condolences, all while pointedly not glancing around lest I lay eyes on him by accident. I finally took several deep breaths whispered some words of encouragement to myself before turning my face toward the opposite end of the room.
For the first time since I heard the news – the first time in years – I saw my friend’s face. Easily recognizable in profile. I wanted to hug him, but there was a coffin in the way.
I worked my way through the room, stopping from time to time to briefly chat with another family member. Finally I found myself not ten feet away, my Lady Love holding my arm. She noted me working up the strength to walk over and pay the proverbial Final Respects. I didn’t want to go . . . so I started chastising myself using his voice. In my mind I heard him calling me names, playfully mocking my discomfort. “Get over here, ya punk.” When I was finally ready Nikki clocked it, and she asked if I wanted her to go with me. “Not the first time,” I told her. She understood and let go of my arm, and I walked over to look my Best Man in the face. I tried to contain myself, but I couldn’t help but burst into laughter almost immediately.
That fucker still had Bitchy Resting Face. Of all the people in the room, I figure he had the most cause.
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