Saturday, November 22, 2008

Scars Remain

It was probably a month ago. A cold night and I was tired. My dog, Lucy, was outside in the backyard. I went outside on the deck to call her in for the night. Her usual reaction is to run up to me, ready to go inside the house. Every so often, though, she likes to do this thing my wife calls, "pussyfooting," in which she clearly sees me on the deck, calling her, yet chooses to take one or ten final sniffs before relinquishing to my summons. This was one of the "pussyfooting" nights. I was a bit agitated that she knew what she was supposed to do yet refused to do it. When this happens, I usually walk out in the yard, grab her by the collar and pull her along. As I walked up to her, Lucy, sensing that she was in trouble, started to run in circles and sideways to avoid the impending wrath of her daddy. I don't mean to sound like I'm abusive or even harsh with her. Lucy's a wonderful dog who we've trained in the 'Caesar Milan' style. We are strict, but not harsh. She ran to and fro, trying to avoid me. I finally grabbed a hold of her and brought her up on the deck. On this night I was a bit rough when I forced her on the deck. I was making her lie down so that she would know that she had misbehaved. In doing this, I hit my hand on one of the wood planks, cutting my left ring finger. Ouch. The last thing I needed along with irritation was pain and blood. And so began a lesson that I think God is trying to teach me.

As I said in the opening sentence of this blog, it's been around a month since that incident. My 'wound' is still visible and is healing at a painfully slow pace. I emphasize painfully because almost every day since cutting my finger I've found a way to hit it on something. It really, really hurts when I do that. It's a very physical reminder to me that I should have been more patient with Lucy that night. It's also a reminder that I will need to have extra patience in several months when I become a father for the first time. While I've come along way with patience since high school, I still somehow have a long way to go. Thank God for scars that keep reminding me of my stupidity and impatience. Most days, a quick, painful slap on the hand is probably just what I need. As I look down at my left ring finger, I smile. I'm sure I'll bump it on something today and immediately cringe. But then I'll smile again. I need those reminders. I'm too impatient to reflect on my stupidity otherwise.

Sunday, November 9, 2008

The Bailout

A Fictional Short Story

My story, though still in progress, starts about seven months ago. A college graduate two years removed and my life was going nowhere. You get the idea in college that the whole world is at your feet; that with this degree I'll be able to do anything. Unfortunately, I didn't plan on a dead-end job and a crap economy that prevented me from finding anything better. When you're in that type of situation, you start to look for fulfillment outside of work. My first couple of years at this job found me enjoying my new apartment, taking care of my own bills, and paying for a new car. It was an office job, nothing really special. My job was to take over-the-phone orders for mailing labels and business cards, design them, and send them on down the line for printing. I worked the noon-to-eight shift because our company, like so many others, wanted to provide their customers the convenience of "after-hours" service. Lucky me. Actually, I enjoyed the shift. I could sleep until nine-thirty or so in the morning, take my time getting ready, and stroll into work by noon. Once or twice a week I went out to eat by myself after work. For the first year or two, some of my coworkers would invite me to go out with them after work, but I wasn't into the bar scene. Plus, I really didn't have the money to spend anyway. As time rolled on, though, I felt my life needed something more.

It's funny how you become comfortably numb to your surroundings after a while. What was once exciting isn't special anymore. I was so glad to find my first job out of college and to be on my own. I craved the independence. Now that I had it, I kind of missed the company of my family. I ate dinner alone. I took walks alone. I went shopping alone. It makes sense to me, in hindsight, why I started spending more money and going out with coworkers after a couple years of doing life alone. Sometimes we would go to a bar and drink a few beers, complaining about the day and talking about the next "initiative" at work. Other times, if it was just the guys, we might go to a strip club for a couple of hours. Early on, I felt a sense that I should distance myself from these places as I would watch the morning news and hear of shootings or fights at bars and strip clubs. Since I had never experienced anything like that myself, I gradually talked myself into believing these activities were fine and that I didn't need to worry about it. It felt good to have something to look forward to at the end of the work week. When you live by yourself, something as trivial as grocery shopping becomes an excuse to wear your new jeans and get out for a bit. I had tired of looking forward to grocery shopping, though, and wanted a little more excitement—or at least something that felt more meaningful—outside of work. It became more and more common to find me at a bar with coworkers on Thursday night, at a strip club on Friday night, and alone on Saturday and Sunday nights. It occurred to me that my coworkers didn't really ever call me to get together on weekends. We only went out after work. Still, it was companionship and I desperately needed it.

The weeks rolled by, one by one, and I couldn't even see the rut that was being carved in my life. I was drinking more than I ever had in my life, even if it was only two to three nights a week. I never had really felt comfortable gawking at women, but every week, there I was, gawking at women and throwing my money at them. When we went to the bar on Thursday nights, my coworkers and I would get more of a chance to talk. The conversations were stupid and pointless, but it continued to feel good to have people around. I think deep down I knew I was lonely, but what could I do? I had my independence and I sure didn't want to move back to my parent's house. These thoughts consumed me on Saturday and Sunday nights. "I want something more in my life, but isn't that why I'm hanging out with my coworkers at the bars?" "If I'm lonely, isn't it better to be out with people than to be sitting on my couch at home?" I would rationalize it any way I could. That's why I continued to live the single, bar-hopping lifestyle. As the months progressed, I sometimes felt the sense that my life was out of order. When I started this job, I had plans to save a lot of money. I even had a budget laid out. I would get up early on Saturday mornings and jog around my apartment complex. There were even a couple of Sundays where I went to a local church. It felt like I had a good balance in my life. Unfortunately, it's hard for a single guy out of college to meet people. Most of my friends from college had married or didn't live close enough to hang out with regularly. I think that's what eventually drove me to take up the offers given by my coworkers. "Sure, I'll go to the bar tonight. What else am I doing?" That became a common response. As the rut indentation became deeper and deeper, I felt I was at a crossroads. I had the companionship I had longed for and I had weekly 'outings' to look forward to, but now I felt like it had become dull and meaningless. I guess I was either afraid or confused as to what to do about it. Afraid that if I tried to change my life, I'd end up where I started a couple of months before—alone. Confused as to what exactly I needed to do to get my life back on track. Too many of my evening consisted of mediocre American beer and deep-fried appetizers. All I had to show for my 'fun' times was clothes that smelled like a cigarette. This wasn't me. Yet I just kept rolling along. It was all I knew to do.

If I felt like I wasn't myself, that should indicate that I knew myself. Ironically, I didn't. As I tried to figure it out, I felt like I wasn't having much success. I didn't want this lifestyle anymore. I wanted a girlfriend. I wanted to take weekend hiking trips. I wanted to go to local football games. The thing that made me so mad was that all of these 'dreams' didn't really work if I was doing it by myself. So I resigned myself to renting sub-par movies and eating at one of three tables available at a small Chinese take-out restaurant a couple of blocks from my apartment. Sometimes I wanted to invite a coworker out to eat with me on the weekend, but then I thought more about it and decided to just go out by myself. I felt different than my coworkers. Don't get me wrong, they were nice and friendly overall, but I didn't feel like I quite fit in with them. They didn't seem to have any grand plans for their lives. They seemed content to just drift through the weeks and months, complaining about their jobs but exerting no energy into making a change. Sometimes I'd look at them and think, "Is this my future?" "Do I really want to be in this job in five years, spending my weeks complaining about insignificant problems at work?" It felt like I was waiting on something big to happen. When would a new job opportunity arise? When would I find a girlfriend? I needed something to complete my life. Something to provide greater meaning to this existence.

Growing up, I had never really been in trouble. There were a few detentions in high school, but that was about the extent of it. That's what makes the next part of this story so nonsensical. It had been about seven months since I had starting going to clubs with my coworkers. During this time, as I have mentioned, I was trying to figure out who I was and what I wanted out of life. It was at that point in which I found myself dumbfounded as I sat in a 20-foot-by-20-foot jail cell several weeks ago. I was out with my coworkers on a Friday night. We were at a sports bar and Jeff, one of my coworkers, turned his opinion up to an annoying volume. Jeff was kind of a jokester. He was the guy who didn't seem to mind if it was Monday morning at work—he'd be joking and smiling just the same. After drinking a little too much, Jeff began yelling at the television about a trade that the Cincinnati Reds had made that day. We all knew he was being a bit loud, but didn't say anything to him. Unfortunately, someone else did. A verbal testing of wills broke out, which led to a shove. A few punches were thrown, and I found myself trying to split up the fight. Out of nowhere came two bouncers who threw us all to the floor. I felt as low and dirty as the sticky floor I was lying on. Minutes later, I was in the back of a police car, being questioned about what had occurred. Since no one came to my side as a witness, it was up to me to defend my cause. "Officer, all I was doing was trying to split up the fight." "Well, the bouncers here said they saw all three of you getting into it," the officer replied. I knew arguing would get me nowhere, so I just sat in silence, trying to come to terms with this bizarre reality in front of me. The police drove us across town to the station and arrested us for public intoxication and disturbing the peace. We were each being held on a bond of fifteen-hundred dollars. I was worried. Not only did I not have fifteen-hundred dollars, but the last thing I wanted to do was to call my parents. Somehow I hoped this whole incident could just blow away. I wanted to get out of the situation and keep myself out of trouble for the rest of my life. But unless I made a call and admitted my mishap, I was stuck in that jail cell. Deep down I knew I shouldn't have been in that situation, but, again, I was lonely and craved the company of my coworkers. An hour or two had passed and all I could do was stare at the concrete blocks of the wall, wondering how I ended up in this place. I wasn't a bad person, was I? So why was I sitting in jail on a Friday night? Would this affect my employment? So many questions swirled through my mind. It was overwhelming and I hated myself for getting into this situation to begin with. It didn't matter that I didn't do anything wrong. Besides, they did have me honestly on one account—public intoxication. I had drunk more than my usual two beers on this night and knew I would have to stay at the bar until early in the morning for it to wear off. By this time, the lingering effects of that alcohol had worn off, but the guilt remained. "If I could just think of someone to call to get me out of here; I will pay them back and steer clear of bars for the rest of my days," I thought to myself. If this was some divine wake-up call for my life, it was coming through loud and clear.

Sitting in that cell, I had no desire to talk to my coworker Jeff. I was angry and bitter towards him for shooting his mouth off. Other nights when we would go out, his clamorousness had just slightly annoyed me. This time it infuriated me. I wondered why I even hung out with him. I guess it was simply because he was there. We didn't really have much in common, or even see eye-to-eye on most issues. The other guy that fought with Jeff sat in the corner with his head in his knees. I think he had drifted off to sleep. Jeff didn't really say anything, either. At first, he tried to defend himself, saying he'd done nothing wrong. I started to retaliate with my opinion, but quickly bit my tongue. It didn't matter at this point. After several hours and a thousand thoughts later, a police officer came back to our shared jail cell. "You guys might wanna listen up," the officer said. "I know it sounds odd, it certainly sounds that way to me. There's a gentleman out front who came in and offered to bail out you three, no questions asked. He says he'll be out in the office for about an hour. You have 'til then to take him up on his offer." The officer walked away and we all looked at one another in disbelief. "Is this for real?," I asked out loud. "Did someone call a relative or something?" Jeff then spoke up. "I didn't call anybody. That officer's yanking us. No one's gonna put up thousands of dollars to bail us out." We talked about it for a few minutes and called for the officer again. "Sir, who is this guy? How do we know this is legitimate?," I asked. The police officer said all that he knew was that a man was sitting out in his front office, claiming that he wanted to pay our bond. Jeff asked if we could talk to the man. The officer left again and when he came back, he said, "The gentleman agreed to walk back here, but says that there's nothing else to say about his offer. He says it's plain and simple." "Sir, we're just having a hard time believing that someone we don't know would offer to bail us out," I said. "How does he know us?" "He doesn't," the officer replied. "He indicated it was his business as to why he wanted to bail you out." We were skeptical yet curious at the same time. The officer returned with the gentleman. He was a tall, African-American man, probably in his 60s. He managed a half-smile at the three of us, then a quick nod as if to say, "believe it." He turned and walked back down the hall towards the front office. We sat there, not sure of what to make of this offer presented to us. "This guy's a whack," said the guy that fought with Jeff. "I'm not taking any bond money from some rich old 'brotha.' He can keep his black money." Jeff and I stared at one another, shocked at the guy's response. "It does sound too good to be true," Jeff replied. "This old man could use this as blackmail or who knows what else. I don't know that I want to be indebted to someone I don't even know. What if he follows us once we leave?" I sat there thinking about their responses. It did seem too good to be true. It seemed very strange and mysterious, too. Why was this man here? Was he watching us at the bar? It was almost like a storyline from a horror movie. There was, though, a calming sense of peace that I felt when I looked at the man. He seemed very humble, very sincere. Maybe he was just a nice old man who wanted to use his money to help out others. I wasn't sure, but I felt like I should accept his gift and walk away from this incident. I knew that I had made some mistakes, but I also knew I was ready to leave them there in that grungy jail cell. I wanted to turn my life around and maybe this was my chance to do that.

After about forty-five minutes, I had decided that I wanted to take the man up on his offer. It didn't make sense, but then again, neither did this whole night. The past seven months of my life hadn't made sense. I was ready for a new path. Calling for the officer, I told him that I wanted to accept the man's offer. He nodded and said he'd be back in a minute. Jeff shook his head at me. At this point, I didn't care what Jeff or anyone else thought of me. I didn't belong in this place anymore. It was too painfully reflective of how I felt inside—dirty, cracked, and broken. If this was for real, I was taking it. No looking back. The officer returned, informing the other two guys that their time to decide was up. He escorted me out of the cell and out to the front office. I looked around for the man to thank him. "Where'd he go?", I asked. "He paid your bond and left pretty quickly," the officer replied. "He was polite and didn't say much." It was only about three miles to my house, so I decided some fresh, early-morning air and a little time to think would do me good. I looked over my shoulders a few times, wondering if the man would be there. He wasn't. This was all sort of overwhelming to me. A random man, out of nowhere, offers to pay my bond. Why? Did he know me? All I knew for certain was that I was a free man and was given a second chance to get my life back on track. A weight had been removed from my shoulders. It felt good to have a fresh start. I had been shown grace and it felt as refreshing as the brisk morning air that rushed over my face. It was a new day and I now had a greater understanding of what a new day could be.