Author: frankisemptiness

Early December, 2017

This story is from almost fifteen years ago. Hans was twenty years old, and he had just recently moved to Texas to seek his fortune. Our girl was in the Milwaukee High School of the Arts. Stefan was an eighth grader at the Waldorf School. At this point, many things were still in the future and unknown. Hans had not yet gone to war. A girl we love had not yet attempted suicide. Stefan was dreaming of becoming a chef, rather than the welder that he is now. The people in this story may or may not even exist any more. If they do, they have changed. I have changed.

There was a feeling of innocence then. Perhaps, it is worth remembering…

Snow was falling outside of the classroom window; big, wet flakes swirling in the breeze. The classroom itself was very warm, and it smelt strongly of beeswax. There was a table set up in the middle of the classroom. It held several pots full of melted wax. Near the door was a rack full of strings to be used as wicks. The room was part of the Waldorf school’s holiday fair. I was there to help people make their own beeswax candles as part of the fundraiser. Anybody could come inside and make themselves a candle for two bucks a pop. The room was full of noisy children and harried parents.

The candlemaking took place at the Tamarack Waldorf School on Brady Street. Our youngest son, Stefan, was going to school there at the time. When Hans, our oldest son, was small he had also attended a Waldorf school for a while, and we had been part of the holiday fairs at that time. Our girl went to Tamarack too, and we went to fairs with her. The fairs tend to be big on magic, myth, and mystery. You have to be a bit of a dreamer to appreciate them. You also need a high tolerance for chaos.

As I looked around the room, I saw a little boy who seemed a bit forlorn. He had a shock of blond hair, and he had a string in his hand. He was clearly too small to reach the pots of molten wax, and he didn’t know what to do. I saw his mother sitting nearby, and I asked her if I could hold her son to help him make his candle.

The boy looked at me, and then he looked at his mother and asked, “Darf ich ?”. That is “May I?” in German. The mother replied to him, “Mach’ nur.” ( Go ahead ). I remembered years ago when Karin and I had spoken German with Hans. Hans was about the same age as this boy when we did that. The mother smiled at us, and I picked up the young man and set him on my right hip.

We walked around and around the table, repeatedly dipping the wick and watching the candle grow ever thicker. I spoke to the boy as we made our way from pot to pot.

“Wie heisst Du?” (What is you name?)

“Ich heisse Louis.” (I am called Louis.)

“Wie alt bist Du?” (How old are you?)

“Ich bin drei.” (I am three.) He said this as he held up three tiny fingers.

Louis grew tired as we walked and walked (candlemaking takes a while). He rested his head on my shoulder, and I could smell his hair. He had that “clean-little-boy” smell that told me that his mother had spent some time getting him ready for the fair. At last the candle was complete and Louis ran to his mother, proudly showing her his oddly-shaped candle.

I walked away and a moment later I felt a tug on my pants leg. Louis looked up at me with bright eyes and said, “Ich wille noch mal!” (I want to do it again!). So, I picked up the lad and we started again. I was out of practice holding little boys on my hip. Either Louis got heavier or I got tired, but eventually I had to put him down. He ran to his mother to show her his new candle.

I felt hollow as he ran off. I suddenly realized that I had been holding somebody else’s little boy. This was Louis, not Hans. My little boy was long gone, and he would never come back again. There was a young man in Texas using his name, and that young man was already thinking about joining the Army, although I didn’t know it yet.

I turned to look out the window. My eyes burned. It was still snowing, but the snowflakes were all blurry. The windows must have fogged up.

September 6th, 2017

“The extreme limit of wisdom, that’s what the public calls madness.” – Jean Cocteau

Another night at the VA hospital. I arrived there just before 6:30. Sister Ann Catherine and Brian were already there. So was Jim. He’s a retired Milwaukee cop, and an all-around decent guy. They had a wheelchair filled with food and drink. Sister A.C. pushed the wheelchair to the elevator and we went up to the third floor. We passed through the two sets of doors to the psych ward. (There are two sets of doors to prevent people eloping, i.e. escaping, from there). Once we signed in, we set up our snacks in the break room. I set out plates of grapes. Jim got the sodas and ice ready. Sister A.C. laid out boxes of doughnuts and cookies. Jim gave me some plastic bowls for popcorn.

Gradually, patients shuffled into to the room. That’s what they do: they shuffle. I don’t know if it’s because of age, or infirmity, or because they are all wearing socks, but that’s what they do. Nobody walks with a purpose, maybe because nobody really has one in this place. They come slowly into the break room, wearing their pajamas and white bathrobes. All dressed up with nowhere to go.

Somebody put the Brewers game on the TV.  The vets grabbed their snacks and sat down. Some of them sat at a table with Brian and Sister to play cards. I spied out a guy who sitting off by himself, and I went over to talk with him.

“Hi, I’m Frank,” and I held out my hand.

The vet looked up at me nervously, and shook my hand.

He said, “I’m Richard.” He paused for a moment, and said, “I have a drinking problem.”

This man was definitely in the right place.

We went through the usual introductory questions. I asked him, “What branch were you in?”, and “When did you serve?”. There is kind of ritual to it. We had to feel each other out.

Richard stared at me and asked, “So, are you a patient too?”

“Uh, no. I help bring the snacks.” This was not the first time that a veteran has asked me if I belonged in the psych ward. Apparently, I look like I should be there. I’m not quite sure how to feel about that.

Richard told me his story in great detail. I listened. He had been working a job with an abusive boss. Richard told me that he left the job over a year ago. It wasn’t clear to me how he left. I asked him,

“Did you get fired, or did you quit?”

Richard looked perplexed. “I didn’t really quit. I took some vacation, and I went to Aruba. I really didn’t want to work there any more. Then I went to Peru. My boss just wouldn’t leave me alone. He kept calling me, and nagging me about coming back. I went to Brazil.”

“That sounds to me like you quit.”

Richard shrugged. “I came back here from Thailand, and I was staying in a motel. I just wanted to drink. I decided that it wasn’t working with me drinking a bottle of whiskey and ten beers every day.”

“No, that’s not a good way to live long term. How long have you been here?”

Richard told me, “Today. I got into the hospital after noon, and I’ve been on this floor since five or so.”

“How long do you think you’ll stay?”

Richard looked at me and said, “I don’t know…maybe three or four days. Then I should get into the dom, you know, the domiciliary.”

The dom.  The guys in the ward talk about the domiciliary like it’s the Promised Land. I’ve never been in the place. I would be curious to see it. It’s a transitional living space on the VA campus. Richard spoke of it with wistfulness in his voice, like: “Once I get in the dom, things will be okay.” God, I hope so.

Jim, the retired cop, asked me about my girl. I told him about her having a relapse. We talked about drugs. We talked about depression. We talked about the fact that my girl had been clean for six months, and that it was impressive.

A voice interrupted our discussion.

“I could not help but to overhear your conversation about your girl. How old is she?”

“Twenty-six”, I replied.

The man who spoke was elderly. He was sitting alone at the next table. He had a short white beard, and longer white hair. He had full lips and a Roman nose. The man’s eyes were large and intense. He wore a black skullcap, which was slightly askew on his head. He wore a silver ring with a Star of David on his right hand. He had been nibbling on a chocolate cupcake.

The two of us talked for a while. He asked me more about my girl. He was genuinely concerned. He told me that he had a bipolar condition, and that he had recently experienced a manic episode. That was the reason for him being in the ward and sitting across from me at the table.  He gave me his history, and I told him about how Karin and I were dealing with our girl’s struggles. I listened to him explain what he had all learned over the years.

I said to the man, “I wonder why we have to suffer these things.”

He shrugged and said, “Sometimes God is angry with us.”

I replied, “That’s okay. Sometimes I’m angry with Him.”

The old man laughed. He straightened his yarmulke.

I told him, “Some weekends I go Lake Park Synagogue. You know where that is?”

He smiled and nodded.

“Do you ever go there?”

Still smiling, he shook his head and said, “No, I’m with Lubavitch!”

It was time to leave. I stood up and extended my hand to him, and said, “I have to go now. Thank you.”

He remained seated. He grasped my hand tightly in both of his. Then he gently kissed it.

I felt like crying. Why?

September 5th, 2017

Every Wednesday evening, after I teach a citizenship class at Voces de la Frontera, I get on to I-94 at the on ramp at the corner of 5th Street and Lapham on Milwaukee’s south side. There is a traffic light at the intersection, and I always have to wait for a green light. It’s a gritty part of town, and it houses a mostly working class, Latino population. St. Stanislaus Church is a block away. Its twin, golden steeples glow in the twilight. The church is a reminder of years gone by, when this neighborhood was completely Polish, and somewhat more prosperous.

There used to be a sign on the light pole at the corner that said, “No Panhandling”. There has almost always been somebody standing directly under that sign, doing exactly that. Some person stands there and hustles loose change from the drivers waiting at the light. I have to admire the chutzpah, and somehow I enjoy the irony.

The hustlers come in all shapes and sizes. Maybe they take turns. Sometimes there is a woman there, sometimes a guy. They might be white or black or Latino. Young or old. That corner is only empty if the weather is truly terrible.

They always carry a cardboard sign. Always. I don’t think that people ever really look at what is scrawled across the cardboard. Usually, it says something like: “Homeless vet”. It probably doesn’t matter what is written there. Somebody could write: “Please help! I am a lost Klingon!”, and the effect would be the same. Personally, I would like to see a sign that says, “Need money for vodka.” The honesty would be refreshing.

I try to have some cash with me on Wednesday nights. I know that there are all sorts of excellent arguments against giving money to panhandlers. I just look at these people, and I see suffering. Begging for money on a dirty street corner is a lousy gig. I don’t know how these folks got there, but they are hurting. It’s that simple.

Last Wednesday there was young man on crutches on the corner. His left leg was in a cast that went from his foot to his knee. He looked rough. He hadn’t shaved for a while, and he had bruises on his face. However, he had his cardboard sign.

The light turned red just as I pulled up to the intersection. I called to the guy. He limped slowly over to my car. I pulled some singles out of my wallet. I put the money into his hand, and asked him his name.

“Chris”, he said. He was grimacing as he tried to walk with the crutches.

“How are you?” I asked. I already knew the answer to that.

“Not good at all, Man.”

“What happened?”

“I got mugged last night. Some fucker hit me with a golf club. Then he broke into my car. He took my blankets and my clothes. Fuck. I got no place to stay now.” He didn’t look at me while he talked. He was staring into the distance.

A couple cars pulled behind me at the intersection. The light suddenly turned green.

“Hey, I got to go. Take care of yourself.”

He glanced at me. “Yeah, you too. Thanks.”

I shifted into first gear and took off.

 

 

 

September 5th, 2017

My family has a history of heart disease. My dad’s father had a chest grabber while mowing his lawn back in August of 1971. The mailman found him face down in the backyard later that day. My dad has had two heart attacks and a quadruple bypass. His younger brothers have both had work done on their cardiovascular plumbing. This is the sort of thing that should give me pause, especially as I am approaching my 60th birthday. However, thus far my blood pressure and cholesterol have been good, so I don’t care that much.

However, our younger son, Stefan, likes to keep me straight. He tends to comment on my eating habits. Here is a sample conversation:

Stefan: “You making a sandwich?”

Me: “Yeah.”

Stefan: “You got enough butter on that?”

“Maybe”.

“I’m going in the refrigerator. I could grab you another stick.”

“That’s okay, but if you are going in the fridge, could you get me the Miracle Whip?”

“You’re going to put Miracle Whip on there TOO?”

“Yeah, why not?”

Eye roll. “Never mind. You know, there are other food groups besides meat, cheese, bread, and butter.”

“That’s what I’ve heard. I did have a pickle.”

Another eye roll. “Do you have enough bread to hold that thing all together?”

“Yes. Bread is simply a vehicle for the other stuff.”

“Is your heart pounding yet?”

“No, I have to eat this first.”

“Enjoy.”

 

 

 

September 4th, 2017

Events move too quickly. Just a couple weeks ago, people seemed deeply concerned with the violence at Charlottesville. Now, the nation is looking at the aftermath of Hurricane Harvey, the possibility of nuclear war with North Korea, and the frightening prospect of Kate Middleton and Prince William having yet another child. Madness, utter madness.

I’m kind of slow at this sort of thing. I ruminate and mull things over stuff for a while before I take any action. That usually puts me at least two weeks behind the news cycle. So, I am still lingering in Charlottesville. Specifically, I am intrigued by the “Antifa”, the anti-fascists. These are the people who want to battle against the Neo-Nazis, and appear to be hopeless romantics. These are the people that the talking heads at Fox News grimly point out as being left-wing thugs when they want to divert attention from the right-wing thugs. These are the people that the Left would prefer to officially ignore, while perhaps secretly applauding their actions.

The Antifa don’t advertise much. I did a brief scan of the Internet, and found that these folks generally keep a low profile, except in the instances when they decide to raise some hell in the streets. They love to out people who they have branded as fascists. Neo-Nazis can expect to have very little privacy. There is no hiding in this modern age.

In the course of my research, I contacted the I.W.W. (Industrial Workers of the World). It is difficult to get further to the left than these people. I have met them at rallies in the past, and they usually come with their red and black flags, looking all serious and shit. The truth is that they are sincere. and they look forward to the Revolution, whatever that is and whenever that may happen. I admire that sort of commitment, mostly because I don’t have it. Their hearts are in the right places.

Last Wednesday I had lunch with a guy named John. He’s with the I.W.W. We met at the Fuel Café on the south side of Milwaukee. The original Fuel Café is the Riverwest neighborhood of Milwaukee. It is old, and it has a gritty, working class feel to it. Most people there seem to be living on the edge. The employees there play whatever music appeals to them. The boys who sit on the sidewalk out front, they are all in some sort of recovery, and they indulge in the last acceptable addictions: caffeine and nicotine. However, the new café on the south side, the Latino area, has a very hipster vibe. It’s just not the same. As our youngest son, Stefan, told me, “It’s hard to make a brand new place look grungy and old.” Sad, but true. I prefer grungy and old. It feels real to me.

I had expected to just have coffee with John. He planned on eating lunch. John offered to buy lunch for me, but I stuck with my black coffee. I was probably being rude, but I wound up eating some of his lunch anyway. Fuel has some very good meals, at least at the south side location. John ordered a beet and goat cheese salad. He offered me some of it. It was good. He also ordered a salad with smoked trout. He offered me some of that too. It rocked. Even revolutionaries get to eat well.

John is a big guy. He looks like a boxer. I am guessing that somebody rearranged his nose at some point in his life. He’s about ten years older than me. He told me that he has spent the last fifty years working as an organizer. He loves that sort of thing, which is why we had lunch together. John is not an ideologue. He is interested in doing. So am I.

John is from Nyack, New York. That really isn’t very far from where I went to school. I graduated from West Point, and I mentioned that to John. He wasn’t that surprised. I suspect that very little surprises him any more. John told me his history. It’s quite interesting. I told him mine. We ate smoked trout.

At one point John paused in his meal. He asked me, “So why are you interested in the I.W.W.?”

I told him, “I have been reading about the Antifa. I want to know if you guys wear ski masks and torch Starbucks.”

John looked at me and said, “Well, generally not. We don’t usually operate like that. That does not mean that it’s impossible that specific individuals in the organization might decide to engage in that sort of behavior.”

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, I see.”

John is not the kind of guy to start dumpster fires or beat up people. He’s old, like I am. He is passionate about certain topics, as I am. We talked a lot about immigrants. Back when John was is in Nyack, he helped to protect a Salvadoran family that was threatened with deportation. He, and forty other people, made that particular ICE action very public and very uncomfortable for the government. John and I talked about the possibility that it may soon get to the point where we need to hide people. It’s a bit reminiscent of the Anne Frank story.

John and I agree on a number of things. Mostly, we agree that it’s best to do something, and stop talking shit. I like that. I really hope to be able to work with John in the future. He, and the I.W.W., know that I care about immigrants and vets. Anything that has to do with those two issues is interesting for me.

I didn’t get to meet an anti-fascist. I’m not sure that I want to.

 

 

 

 

 

August 25th, 2016 (a conversation from a year ago)

We got together with our son, Hans, a few days ago. My wife and I were staying at a retreat house in northern Ohio, and Hans rode his Harley up from Columbus to visit with us. We made small talk for a while, and then Hans smirked and asked me,

 

“So, how is that ‘Black Lives Matters’ thing working out for you in Milwaukee?”

 

I knew where Hans was going with that. He must have seen the news. Since the media made the shooting at Sherman Park and the subsequent unrest look like the Apocalypse, Hans probably had the notion that all of Milwaukee had gone up in flame. I told Hans what I knew about the shooting of Sylville Smith by a Milwaukee policeman. I also told Hans what a black friend of mine had said to me about the incident.

 

The day after the shooting I called Ernie, a guy who I had worked with for over twenty years. Ernie is black. He lives near Rufus King High School, and I have been to his house a couple times, and he’s come down to Oak Creek to my place too. I asked Ernie what he thought about the cop killing Smith. Ernie is not a man to mince words or hide his true feelings.

 

Ernie told me, “Frankie, that guy was a fucking idiot. If a cop tell you to drop the gun, you drop the goddam gun!”

 

Hans heard me out. Then he told me,

 

“Dad, I think that Black Lives Matter is a hate group, just like the Ku Klux Klan.”

 

Hmmmm…that’s a stretch, but it made me start remembering things from a long time ago.

 

I was just a kid when the riots hit Milwaukee back in 1967. I grew up on 82nd Street in West Allis, back when the city was a gritty industrial town, full of factories and taverns. My neighborhood was full of people with small homes, tidy yards, conservative views, and unpronounceable Slavic surnames. My little town was inhabited by solid union members, and it was racist as all hell.

 

I don’t remember many details from the 1967 riots. I do remember, quite clearly, the feeling from that time. Even as a child, I could taste the fear and the anxiety. I remember my dad and his brothers, sitting on the porch, talking about buying guns to “keep the niggers out”. People were scared. Really scared. I remember also that my father voted for George Wallace in the next election.

 

Hans brought me back to the present. He said, “Black Lives Matter targets whites. It’s like Malcolm X.”

 

To be honest, I was a bit surprised that Hans even knew about Malcolm X. Hans often surprises me that way. He’s not a stupid man, and he spends time to think things out.

 

I told Hans, “Well, if Black Lives Matter targets whites, then why are black cops getting killed?”

 

Hans answered, “Black Lives Matter isn’t very good at what they do.”

 

I told Hans, “Okay, so why don’t I rob a liquor store or burn down a gas station? Maybe it’s because I own a home, or I have a job, or I got some skin in the game. A guy who has no stake in the system, or has no hope of ever having a stake in it, has no reason not to set the world on fire.”

 

Hans was having none of that. He’s struggled mightily since he came home from the Iraq War. He’s been at times both unemployed and homeless. He told me,

 

“There are jobs out there. I found one. I had to move from Texas to Ohio, but I found work. These guys burning stores can find work too.”

 

We moved on to other topics.

 

 

 

 

 

August 24th, 2017

On Thursday I went to the office of Voces de la Frontera to pick up a guy in order to drive him to the Milwaukee County Courthouse. I walked into the office and met my passenger, Marcos. He’s a short man (even shorter than me), and he wears a baseball cap to hide his bald spot, and maybe to make him look a bit taller. Marcos and I made the fifteen minute drive from Voces to the County Courthouse so that he could be present for his appointment in the small claims court. We had to wait a little while for the courtroom to open at 1:30. After that, things went quickly. Marcos met a lawyer, signed some papers, and we were out of there. I don’t know why Marcos had to be in the small claims court. It’s none of my business. I was just the court accompaniment guy.

I do CA (Court Accompaniment) for the New Sanctuary Movement, which is a group that works in conjunction with Voces de la Frontera, which is a local organization that promotes the rights of workers and immigrants. CA is a program in which a volunteer escorts an immigrant to a court appearance. It might be a court appearance in Milwaukee, or in Waukesha, or in Racine, or even in Chicago. The volunteer goes along with the immigrant to wherever he or she needs to go. The volunteer does not act as a lawyer or as an interpreter. The volunteer is just there.

Why? Why should a volunteer tag along with an immigrant to a court appearance? There are couple reasons. First, the immigrant might just need a ride to the courthouse. That happens. Second, the immigrant may not be fluent in English, and the volunteer might be able to give some guidance. Third, and perhaps most important, the immigrant might be scared shitless about going into a courthouse alone. In the present political climate, an immigrant, legal or otherwise, is very leery about going places where there are lots of cops. Considering that David Clarke is Sheriff of Milwaukee County, and that Clarke wholeheartedly supports President Trump’s draconian immigration policies, these people have good reason to be concerned.

The fact is that the New Sanctuary Movement wants some legitimate-looking white guy (or woman) to ride shotgun with these Latino immigrants.  As some people might notice, I don’t look particularly respectable, but I am available for the job. Somehow, I provide a modicum of safety and comfort to the people that I escort. If trouble occurs, is there much that I can do? Not really. I can report back to the folks at Voces. Otherwise, I am just providing moral support to the people that need to be in the courtroom. Maybe that is enough.

The immigrants have to go to court for a variety of reasons. I took one woman to court in Racine because she had been busted three times for driving without a license. Typically, the question arises as to why this person would have no license.

The answer probably is: she can’t get a license.  Only twelve states in the Union allow an undocumented person to get drivers licenses. Wisconsin is not one of those states. In this state, we would prefer that a person who is unable to prove that they are a legal resident or a U.S. citizen be denied a license. That way we can bust the person for driving without a license, and then bitch that those undocumented immigrants are all lawbreakers. An undocumented person who is denied a license will probably still drive. They still need to get to work. They still need to care for their families. With our laws, we just create a Catch-22 for immigrants, in order to make their lives more difficult.

When I go to court with people, I spend time waiting around. I have time to notice things. One thing that I have seen is that most the folks appearing in court are people of color. Why is that? Back in April, when I got arrested for civil disobedience in Las Vegas, I saw the same sort of thing. Most of the people that were in the jail with me were black or Latino. Is this because blacks and Latinos are more likely to commit crimes than white folks? Somehow, I doubt that. Is it because blacks and Latinos are more likely to get pulled over by the police? That seems more plausible. Are my observations proof of racism? No, but they suggest that something is very wrong with the picture.

I volunteer as a CA because I want to make the lives of immigrants slightly less difficult. Maybe I can make things just a bit easier for them. Maybe I can show them that somebody cares.

 

 

August 19th, 2017

Ernie’s funeral was held at the Victory Missionary Baptist Church on the corner of Center and Teutonia on the north side of Milwaukee. I had never been to that church before. If a person wasn’t looking closely, he wouldn’t even recognize it as a church. It’s a rectangular cinder block building, without a steeple or stain glass windows. Of course, the outside of a church really isn’t that important. What’s inside is what makes the difference.

When Karin and I arrived, the church was already packed with people. Ushers were handing out programs and fans to the people in the pews. Once the service started, there was a Scripture reading, and then a prayer led by one of the ministers. The choir sang a selection of Gospel songs. A woman went up to the lectern and read from some of the sympathy cards that the family had received.

Then it was time for remarks.

The pastor took some time to explain how remarks were to be made. He said,

“I am under instruction from the family. I do NOT want to come to the end of this service, and then be told that I did not follow instructions.”

Brief laughter.

“The family requests that six people make remarks: three from Con-way (Ernie’s work place), and three from other family members or friends. Each person may speak for two minutes. We will start with Ernie’s coworkers from Con-way. Please come up to the front.”

Nobody moved.

Karin nudged me hard, and indicated that I should get up there and say something. I walked toward the podium. As I stood in front of the microphone, the pastor asked if any other Con-way employees would like to come up to the front of the church.

Nobody moved.

I asked the pastor, “So, does that mean I get six minutes?”

“No, no, no”, he said quickly. “You only get two.”

Brief laughter.

I started to speak.

” I worked with Ernie for over twenty years.”

“He was the hardest worker that I have ever met.”

“He was the most honest man that I ever met. ”

“Ernie had a big heart.”

I paused.

“I loved him.”

I could feel my throat getting tight.

“I miss him.”

My voice trembled.

“This hurts.”

I looked down at the lectern. What else is there to say? My eyes were wet.

“I still love him.”

There were a couple “Amens”.

I walked back to my seat.

I didn’t need two minutes.

August 14th, 2017

The bass guitar had been leaning on its stand for months. I used to play guitar with our youngest son, Stefan, but he got busy with work and his girlfriend. Our jam sessions ended. It’s no fun playing bass by yourself. It’s remarkably boring. Bass lines are essential, but they tend to be rather repetitive.

On Monday afternoons I visit some Syrian refugees, and I teach the kids English for an hour. Generally, I have six children huddled around me. I don’t want to bore them, so I try to find ways to keep them interested. The children are usually motivated to read and write, and I want to keep it that way.

I looked at the bass, and decided that I would bring that along with me when I visited the refugees. I thought about taking the amplifier with me too, but that felt like pushing my luck.  I dusted off the guitar, and I struggled to remember a few simple tunes. I didn’t need many. Three or four riffs would be sufficient.

On Monday I rang the doorbell at the Syrians’ house. One of the kids opened the door for me and said, “Hi.” Her eyes got wide when she saw the guitar.

I walked into the living room. Um Hussein was there in her hijab and dark robe. She gave me a funny look when she saw the bass.

I told the kids, “Let’s go upstairs and play some music.” They all followed me up the narrow, winding staircase to the second floor of the house.

I sat down in a chair. The children were all around me.  I started to play, and they all got quiet. I plucked the strings and fumbled through a rendition of “Sunshine of Your Love” from Cream. I had their attention, so I tried another song. It was something older than the first piece.

I asked them, “Did you like that one?”

They nodded.

“Do you know what that song is called?”

They all shook their heads.

“That song is called ‘Stand By Me’. Do you know what that means?”

More head shaking.

I stood up and I turned to Amar. I said, “Amar, come here, right next to me.”

He did.

“If I am close to you like this, what am I doing?’

He thought for a moment and replied, “Stand by me!”

“Right. ‘Stand by me’ means that somebody is near you. That person is with you when you are in trouble or you need help.”

Amar thought a bit, and then his eyes lit up. “Yeah. Right.”

I called out, “Okay, somebody write this on the board: The song is called ‘Stand by Me’!”

Nisrin grabbed a marker and started to write that out.

“Okay, now somebody tell me about this guitar!”

Nizar said, “It is orange and brown.”

“Is it really?”

“Yes!”

“Okay, then you write that on the board.”

After he finished writing, Yasmin said, “I want to play!”

“Okay, sit down, let’s do it.”

It seemed like they all wanted to play at the same time. I convinced them to take turns. The guitar was really too big for them. Most of the kids had to hold the bass in their laps. Some of them could barely reach across the guitar neck.

I tried to explain the names of the strings.

“The bass strings are E, A, D, and C.”

Ibrahim said, “Yes! A, B, C, D!”

“Uh, no, not really. They go from top to bottom: E, A, D, C.”

Ibrahim looked at me confused. “Not A, B, C, D?”

“No, well, never mind. That’s not so important. Ibrahim, pluck the E string. Pull here.”

He pulled it and the string gave a deep, mellow note.

“I asked him. “Was that a high note or a low note?”

“Low?”

“Yes! Right! Now pull on the C string. What kind of sound is that? High or low?”

“High!”

“Right! Good job!”

We talked about the different parts of the guitar. We talked about whether it was quiet or loud. It could be both. We tried out new words in English.

I showed them how to play a twelve bar. I explained that it was the blues. Blues music.

Nizar shouted, “No! Rock music! I like rock music!”

That boy is well on his way to becoming an American.

Nada brought me up some hot tea.

“Nada, do you want to try?’

Nada was shy. She shrugged and shook her head. “No. I don’t want to.”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to play.”

All the other children tried to play the guitar and/or write something about it. I finished up by playing the bass line from “Hey Joe”.

You can’t go wrong with some Jimi Hendrix.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

August 22nd, 2017

Jim was on the phone. He was having a heated argument with somebody. Jim was sitting in a wheelchair in the lobby of the VA hospital. His walker was next to him. The telephone was a landline on the wall. I might not have noticed him at all, except that he glanced up at me as I was walking by, and he said loudly,

“Frank, wait! Don’t go! Tell Sister to come over here!”

Jim was still on the phone, obviously agitated. He told the person on other end of the line to wait, because he wanted to speak with me and Sister Ann. Apparently, the person conversing with Jim wanted to know who we were, and Jim shouted,

“They’re religious people!”

I had just arrived at the hospital. It was a Tuesday evening, and most every Tuesday evening I join up with a small group of people from the American Legion to visit the vets in the psychiatric ward on the third floor of the building. The other folks were already there, including Sister Ann Catherine. Sister A. C. had served as a nurse in a refugee camp in Cambodia back in the 1970’s, when the Khmer Rouge was still in business. She had been there during “Killing Fields” timeframe. Sister A. C. had a long history of being actively concerned with veterans, especially Vietnam vets.

Sister Ann Catherine walked over to where I was. Jim tried to speak to us, and simultaneously listen to the person on the line. That didn’t work out very well. He became upset, and he finally told the individual on the phone that he couldn’t carry on two conversations at once. He promptly hung up.

I’ve known Jim for several months. He’s been in and out of the psych. ward repeatedly. He and I have had a number of long conversations. We’ve talked about his time on Vietnam. We’ve talked about Hans’ experiences in Iraq. We’ve talked about his days of smuggling drugs into the U.S., back in the 1980’s. Jim is thin and frail. He has longish hair that is going grey. He has a Sam Elliott style moustache. His voice is a bit high-pitched, especially when he is excited.

Jim was excited, and not in a good way. Something was obviously very wrong. Since Sister A.C. and I were standing next to him, he was going to tell us all about it. He began his story:

“You wouldn’t believe what all happened to me today! I was at the airport and I got mugged! I had a thousand dollars in my pocket and it got stolen. I was on my way to Costa Rica. I have friends there. Now I’m not going anywhere!”

Sister Ann Catherine asked him, “When you got mugged, did they take your passport too?”

Jim nodded. Then he went on, “I have friends in Costa Rica. The president of Costa Rica is a friend of mine. They could send me money, but I don’t want to bother them with that. And it’s hard to send money to a different country. You know?”

Sister A.C. answered, “Oh yes, that is difficult.”

Jim kept going, “I went back to my hotel, where I was staying. Guess what? I found my wallet in my room, but it was empty! I had five hundred dollars in that wallet!”

Sister A.C. said, “Oh my.”

The rant continued. Jim said, “Now I don’t have any money, and I don’t have a place to stay any more. The VA won’t help me. A lady here offered to get me a cab to take me to a shelter, but they are all full now. There is another place where I can get a cot for the night, but the police have to take me there.”

“Oh my, that’s awful”, said Sister Ann.

“I don’t even have money to eat!” yelled Jim. He looked at the nun, and asked, “Can you at least give me some money so I can get something to eat?”

Sister Ann was suddenly less sympathetic. “Jim, look at me. I don’t have any money on me. I don’t even have any pockets. I don’t have anything to give you.”

At that point, I expected Jim to hit on me for some cash. He didn’t. He had forgotten all about the money.

Instead, he said, “I got nothing to live for…well, except for my children. I might as well just kill myself. I don’t like to swear, except to make a point. But this bullshit!”

Sister Ann Catherine looked around and saw that the rest of the group had left for the psych. ward. She said, “Jim, I have to go upstairs now.” She turned and walked away.

It was just Jim and me. He slowly got up from the wheelchair.

“This is bullshit. The VA isn’t helping me. I got a sharp knife. Maybe I’ll use it. Then they’ll notice.”

He grabbed his walker, turned away from me, and left me standing next to the phone. He was completely unaware that I was there.

I took the elevator to the third floor. I went into the break room, where Sister Ann and the other people were putting out snacks for the patients.

I found one of the people working on the floor. This guy is always there when we come to visit, and he often handles patients that get unruly.

I said to him, “Hey, I need to ask you something.”

“Sure, what do you want?’

I told him, “When I was in the lobby, I was listening to Jim. He’s been up here a few times. You probably remember him. He seemed really upset, and he was talking about hurting himself.”

“Okay.”

“So, do we need to do something?”

The guy shook his head and told me, “I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, well, I thought that I should tell somebody.”

“You did. Like I said, I wouldn’t worry about it.”

I do worry about it. Jim probably was just being dramatic, but who knows? The guy in the ward knows Jim. He’s worked with him, so he has a better idea of how seriously to take the man. It’s very possible that Jim was saying those things to me just so he could get sent back to the third floor. I don’t know. When I left the hospital later on, I didn’t see Jim anywhere.

I have been thinking a lot about all that Jim told us. It makes my head hurt. It all sounded illogical and disjointed. I don’t think he was trying to hustle us, because if he was, he would have asked me for some cash. I never spoke while he talked. I was trying to figure out what he actually wanted, but I couldn’t get a handle on it.

Maybe he just wanted somebody to listen to him. I don’t know.

I don’t think that Jim was lying  to Sister Ann Catherine and myself. I think that he really and truly believed everything that he told us. That terrifies me. I can deal with a hustler. I can deal with a bullshitter. A liar may be twisted, but he is still shares my version of reality. A man like Jim is sometimes living in his own separate universe, and that freaks me out. I wrestle with trying to understand what is fact and what is fantasy in Jim’s world. I can’t figure it out, because for Jim all of it is real. All of it.

How does a person get to that place? How does he come back? Does he come back?