I was sitting on a bench, drinking a Starbucks blonde and having a cigarette. Behind me, somewhere, “That cigarette stinks!”
But she wasn’t talking to me. There were two of them. And I thought, you can move away from me faster than I can get up off this bench. No cruelty intended, but after walking up the hill and around the store, my calves were cramped and drained of blood, courtesy of Phillip Morris and my lack of self control.
Then I saw Travis. One of the girls yelled at him, “You ain’t smoking that, I saw you pick it up off the ground!”
I turned to the girl and said gently, “it’s okay, I’ll give him one “
The tallest one wasn’t convinced that I had a valid solution. I said, “Go easy on others, it’s a harder habit to quit than heroin. I’ve known people who did both, and they claimed tobacco withdrawal was worse.”
I realize that you may not believe me, but I told them the truth. The two high school ladies fell silent and had something new to think about.
“I’m dying. Lung disease.”
“Then why you still smoking?”
I said, “quitting won’t save me now. It’s too late.” They looked genuinely sad.
They thought I was nice and asked me to get them something they couldn’t buy. Not legally. I said, “I don’t think I should. The police occasionally watch me. They know I carry more blades than the Angry Chef owns, and knuckles to boot.”
The tall one asked why. The other one said, “He needs to protect himself.” I said no, that wasn’t it. “I’m dying. I can’t fight. But if I see someone in trouble, I’m defending them. I’m a protector. I won’t be the one recording video of someone getting beaten.”
They are good kids. They have kind souls and they have wisdom at an age where teens often like to play tough and silly. But I expect them to make a difference.
We don’t have to fight. In defending Travis, I had an opportunity to be gentle and kind, and say a few things to girls who now have something new to think about. They may forget my words, forget me, but all words of advice, when spoken kindly, are forever where we leave them. I thank the Lord for giving me the chance to pass on simple things I’ve learned.
I’ll forget them unless they speak to me again. I can’t even remember what I did this morning.
And that’s okay.
Our father gives us chances to help others, and, for them to help us. Because when I first heard the girls behind me, I expectedthe harsh talk to get worse. I was wrong. We fear what we shouldn’t, and we take lightly the things we should not. We’re a peculiar species.
I got to see my brother Travis today. And the sky was a beautiful deep blue with no clouds. And I had the honor of talking to young people and trying to give them something positive.
I told them to take good care, and began the walk home. I felt better than I have all week.
For years, I have seen a young man hanging around my local supermarket. He’s a big guy and he seemed like some panhandler to me. I also thought him a bit sneaky. He was scared of me because I made sure of it. Lots of people are scared of me because I made sure they were.
It’s almost funny. I’ve seen women cross the street to pass me on the other side. Men ignore me which is even better. They count me as non-threatening. That’s a mistake that has always worked for me.
Until I didn’t want it anymore.
I changed.
Finally, today I saw Travis and waved in greeting.
He walked toward me. I had been menacing for so long that he couldn’t figure out how I knew his name.
Ten years, it’s been. Ten years. I counted him beneath me. That’s a grave sin. There is no excuse for it.
In just a few minutes of sitting together on a bench, enjoying the sunshine, I learned that he’s got speech and other problems. He’s slow, painfully so. He’s lost most of his family and has his mother and one brother left. I think he wanders the shopping center because he tests his mother’s patience. She shoos him out. I’ve seen him standing in the bitter cold with no appropriate cold weather gear. This guy has the mind of a boy.
Today I learned another harsh lesson about judging others, being cruel and how to handle grief. After losing a loved one, if you must blame yourself even a little though others assure you it wasn’t about you, I have a solution.
Help others.
Today, Travis made a new friend who will have his back, pray for him and who will never scare him again.
Yesterday I was in the market and I saw an elderly couple turn toward an aisle. The woman kept a pace that the man could not match. He was pushing the cart, and his cane was inside the cart, which he had to push with both hands. I was almost behind him as I passed the aisle, headed for checkout.
I said, “Hello, sir. How are you today?”
He paused and answered, “Okay, how are you?” His voice made me stop. Usually, people have exchanges like this, and as such, I would have said, “Fine, thank you, sir. Have a good day.” I would have moved on quickly. Well, I would have kept going, but not quickly. I, too, use a cane. He raised the handle of his and said, “I’m about to…” I couldn’t make out the rest, but his voice when he answered my query as to how he was held some quality of gratitude. An almost lonely tone turned to joy that someone had noticed and greeted him. Here was a man who knew little happiness. I get fast with that kind of perception; I myself know how it feels all too well. I try to put on a good show in public, though, as being positive for a few minutes doesn’t cost me anything, and it can, on occasion, make others feel better. Thinking that I have done that, well, in my life, which I’ve told you has been so full of pain? Making someone feel cared for, happy, or positive, those things give and have given me the most positive and good feelings I’ve ever known. With my children gone, if I have nothing else, nobody else, then showing kindness is good medicine.
I asked the man, “You wanna race?”
He chuckled but said sadly, “Not today.”
“You have a nice day, sir,” I said, and with a lighter voice, he said, “Thank you. You, too.”
It took seconds. I knew, though, that his wife hadn’t heard the exchange. I think that made a difference to him. I don’t believe that she has much patience with him.
I’ll never forget him. Ever. I finally did get wet cheeks later, the good kind of tears that only come when something special, however slight or brief, takes place between people.
I wonder what he’s like. What life has done to him. I know he’s in pain on the outside, but I doubt that others ever notice his emotional pain or question where it comes from. These are things others shield themselves from, and that’s a crying shame. It shouldn’t be like that.
But it is.
I’ve made the unforgivable mistake many times of taking the silence of others personally. Whenever I did, I regretted it. Mostly because I was wrong most of the time. So, I’ve developed the determination of being patient and waiting for the right moment, then initiating a quick conversation. I usually just ask, “How are you?” I don’t know how, but most can sense that my question is not casual: I really want to know the answer. I want to hear it. And I’ll gladly listen to complaints, stories, recent experiences, anything. I’m sincerely interested. I care.
The fact is, being an asshole is easy, but the price is too high. I remember 8th grade at a junior high school in Pasadena, Maryland. I was in drawing and painting class. On the first day, we had to do a still life. Pencil work was old stuff to me. I remember there was a propped up guitar with no strings as part of the composition, but not the rest. The teacher, whose name escapes me (although I do remember others), walked around the classroom, checking out our work. When he got to me, he cried, “Farm out!” It was good. Really good. A girl across from me at the next table asked me to hold it up and show her.
At that time, I was nothing but a shy (more like petrified and socially dysfunctional) abused little kid who hated compliments and praise. I hated myself. I couldn’t imagine deserving notice or praise.
Her name was Nancy St. Cyr, a beautiful girl with flaming red hair, and I certainly couldn’t talk to pretty girls. I said, “Go someplace,” which was ’70s politically correct slang for ‘Go to Hell.’
The incredibly intense hurt was shown instantly in her eyes, replaced by hate in seconds. She never spoke to, nor looked at, me again, which still grieves me to this day. Once done, an act of brutality, in word or deed, may never be forgiven. I did not blame her. I still don’t. But I’d give anything to be able to apologize. We just don’t get a lot of second chances, especially when we’re assholes.
I don’t know if God ever forgave me. Sometimes, we cause so much pain that we wonder about that. It is a hurt for us that can’t be healed.
This may make you wonder if I’m a bit more kind and sensitive now because I feel the need to do penance. Well, of course I feel the need, but that’s not why. I got sick of being a cause of pain. I’ve been in pain since I can remember riding in a stroller. Pain. Terror. Then CPTSD because abuse leaves weeping, open wounds that cannot be healed until God brings us back with new bodies. I don’t know much about forgiveness, but I do believe that God counts our every tear, hears every cry of pain, and every prayer. In the meantime, I can’t take my own sins away by doing anything. I just know I need to get back to the narrow road that I left so long ago. I also know that won’t make my life any better. I’ll still be in pain. I’ll still have the regrets of the past. I’ll still remember Nancy St. Cyr and her look of pain. Of all the people I’ve hurt since 8th grade, I don’t remember one of them looking at me like that.
But I’m small, and my part of this universe is too tiny to measure.
Out there. In the world. It is horrible. People do things that others can scarce imagine. A decent person does not have the capacity to picture war crimes. Crimes against humanity. Slavery or mass murder. The constant horror of being terrorized.
It’s all happening right now. It has never stopped. It won’t stop until God’s intervention happens.
But there is still kindness. There is still decency. In a conversation between two old men in a grocery store, with one showing respect, interest, and sincere care to another, there is more that is holy than there is in five years of Joel Osteen’s “sermons.”
Keep the faith. When it is weak, seek the crepuscule: that short time of the day after sunset but before dark, when the reds, oranges, yellows, and purples are painted just above the horizon and a hush seems to fall around you as the day gets closer to leaving.0
The day may hold stress, the night loneliness, but twilight is like God saying, “You like my painting tonight? Remember when you were in art class? It’s okay. It’s going to be okay, so don’t forget me.”
I’m about to turn an age I never thought I’d ever see. And unlike the song, I have no worries about being fed or needed. It’ll just be another day.
I’m fine with that. Because that means I’ll do something nice for someone. I just learned that. I can be nice any time I want to. Whether you want to or not is up to you. I have had enough of dealing out pain. I have too many ghosts for that. I can’t make them go away, but God willing, I won’t pick up any more.
Sometimes, in this rotten world, we have a little bit of power. Not just the rich, or the famous, but all of us. If we just let ourselves be ourselves, that power can be used. We don’t know when it will happen. We usually won’t know when it’s happening. In the most unfair way, we won’t always even get to know what happened afterward. Have you ever, just in being yourself and treating another kindly or maybe just in being friendly in a casual way, stopped after the fact and wondered, Did I help that kid?
Usually, we don’t. We ask ourselves why we bothered in the first place or we just plain forget it. It’s nothing, right?
Well, here’s an example of someone who was conscious of what he was doing, his true person showing in full view, with no reservations, and made a difference. Watch:
Kane, a.k.a. “The Big Red Machine” was a wrestler in the WWE who wore a mask and flame-themed costume. A big man, he was sometimes billed as the most feared wrestler in the WWE, formerly the WWF. His back story involved him being burned, hence the mask and red costume. He was a heavyweight and a badass, but I knew that the actor inside was a good guy. A good man.
The next time you have a chance to show that good side of yourself to someone, and it may seem like a small thing, do it. No matter how small, do it anyway.
It is always worth it, I promise you. And if we are allowed to hear about it, you’ll honor and give hope to jaded men like me.
Memoirs of an American Asshole 