So, I’m going through this “thing”. It’s kinda hard. Ok, it’s really hard. Like, I’m about to lose my mind over it…
I’m the kind of person that tends to hold things in. Internalize. Then the dam bursts….
My poor wife. Thank you, God, for my wife. She listens to me, walks me back from the edge when necessary, and when required, slaps much needed sense into me (how does she always know when to take the right approach…?)
Vigorous exercise helps, too. I am grateful that I have the interest, and health, (and time) to work some of “it” off in the gym. Feel better for an hour, maybe two. Go to bed exhausted, fall off restlessly into Blessed Dreamland. Wake up at some utterly useless hour…02:59h, or 03:41h, or 04:17h. You know what I'm talking about: a little too early to get up, a little too late to fall back asleep. I put the death grip on my pillow, roll over and around endlessly, silently cursing everybody and everything.
Then I get up…and go back…Jack…do it again.
As referenced elsewhere on this thread, I’m not big into “buddies”, or guy friends. I am a loner, and a family man, such as it is. I am a routine-nerd, said routine being: work; workout; eat; sleep. I can get a little cranky when it is disrupted.
But I digress.
This “thing”. Let’s just say it is somewhat “beyond my ken”, as they say in bonny Scotland. It came out of left field, as these “things” most often do, and I just don’t have any relative experience with it. It put me on my a**, so to speak. My wife says I look “flattened”, out of air.
I’ve been keeping it in, as is my wont; it’s not exactly a matter for public debate (which is why, of course, I’m posting it on the internet, idiot that I am), and it’s, well, it’s…uhhh…it’s hard.
So I’m doing my daily commute last week, and I’m wrestling with this “thing” in my head, over and around, and I think: “Neck will know something about this”. (I’m going with nicknames here. If you don’t know who I’m talking about, email me and I’ll tell you.)
Neck and I met in 10th grade; we had a lot in common in some ways, and a lot not in common, in other ways. But it was a Friendship, from the get-go.
Neck was one of those kids who knew exactly who he was when the rest of us were still floundering around in that quagmire of adolescence. He came out of the heart of Put Valley, and he was an entirely unknown quantity to me when we first crossed paths. When he introduced me to Eddie Reilly, we three became inseparable Friends.
Neck seemed to have his friends, and his not-friends. Some guys just wanted a piece of him, as I remember it. I never really found out why. Didn’t seem to bother Neck much; he knew he could handle himself. To me he always was, and is, as Loyal as they come. Period.
Let’s just say that Neck led a somewhat “colorful” life. He was the kind of guy who was always on the fringe of being in trouble—with other kids; with adults; with teachers; with the law. Not trouble with a big “T”, but Neck had a wild side, for sure.
After high school some of our gang went off to sojourn at the various SUNY’s, some had a definite trade and went to work, and some fell into that small town void. Neck fell in. As was common in the 1970’s, after a series of bored, stuck-in-Peekskill mishaps, the choice for Neck became a very dark road indeed, or the military. Very wisely, he signed up for the Air Force.
And presto! he found his niche. He trained guard dogs for military installations all over the world, and was darned good at it. He saw and did some very, very interesting things. (I still have his letters). Got promoted, rapidly. There is a picture of him on this site being sworn in by KD while both are rappelling off of some fifty foot high building because…I have no idea why. That was Neck.
And then there was a “problem”. And rather suddenly, at least from my perspective, Neck was out of the military. Sometime in the ‘80’s. Somewhere in Florida. There was some deep-South style partying. And motorcycles. And gangs. And stuff. He saw and did some very, very interesting things. (I still have those letters, too).
And then, I believe, there was some prison time. Just a brief stint. And then a short stay in Central America (Honduras). Still don’t know why, or what the hell he was doing down there. Keep meaning to ask him. And during this period he learned a trade: Tattooing. And presto! he found his niche (again). Neck was always very, very talented with a pencil and paper, and he became a darned good tattoo artist, and to this day he makes a very nice living at it, somewhere deep in the heart of Texas.
Did I mention that Neck leads a very colorful life?
So, that’s the backstory on Neck, and a long-winded way of saying that he might know a little something about this “thing”.
So I call him up last week. Doesn’t matter that we only speak once every five to seven years, it’s like we just saw each other last night at Papa Bears Bar and Café, and I begin to tell him my story. Less than five minutes in he says: “Call Spanky. He knows all about this”.
Spanky? Jeez, I haven’t spoken to Spanky in 10 years…at least. But if Neck says Spank can help, then Spank can help. And I need help.
Let me tell you about Spanky. Met him in 8th grade, in Mr. Greenstein’s history class. We had absolutely nothing in common. I was a “jock”, all I wanted to do was play baseball. Spanky was a “greaser”, a full-on gear-head. Back then those two circles were like fire and ice. Probably had something to do with the then popular Y.A. novel The Outsiders. But Spank and I hit it off immediately.
Spanky’s dad owned one of the most successful Auto body shops in Westchester, and Spank learned the trade at his father’s knee, literally. I remember him coming into class early one morning all excited; we were 12 or 13 years old, it was 1973. His dad had him in the shop every afternoon and weekends, and together they were rebuilding a ’57 Chevy, piece by piece. He was sourcing all of the original parts, every little thing, right down to the lighter. (Cars had lighters back then.) And so he comes into history class, ready to burst, because he had to tell me this unbelievable thing that happened to him. The night before he spoke to this guy on the phone about this hard to find original part, and he found it, and this guy was from...are you ready? This guy was from Alabama! Spanky spoke on the telephone, directly, all by himself, to a man from Alabama! We couldn’t believe it. So far away!! Alabama. On the phone. These were the things that absolutely rocked our world in 1973…
Neck said I would only be able to reach Spank at his shop, and to call early or I would never get him out from under a piece of steel.
At 06:45h the next day I make the call, and Spank picks up on the second ring. Again, it’s like we were sitting at Papa Bear’s Bar and Café on Oregon Road last night, and just picking up right where we left off.
And I tell him about my “thing”.
And here’s the point of this whole story:
Spanky heard me out, and he began to dispense what I can only describe as the kindest, gentlest, and most thoughtful advice, directly from his own personal experience, that I could have ever, ever hoped for. He gave me over an hour of his time, slowly and carefully guiding me, and quieting me. It was like talking to Master Po (remember Kung Fu?), and Yoda, and Gandalf, and the Birdman of Alcatraz, all at once. In an Auto body shop.
No, rather, it was like talking with a Friend.
And I’m telling this story, here…why? I guess because these are guys I met, and knew well, in high school. And this is a high school website, right?
Then again, it’s really about life.
Here’s the thing, if I needed help I would still feel comfortable calling at least ten different guys from high school, guys I was close to forty years ago, but have barely said “boo” to since: Bony A., or Dre, or KD, or Day-Row, or Dr. No, or Nate, or Klogo, or Jimmy F., or Hagar, or Farley, or Lips, or Ze-Zay, or Tony Robinson... And if any of them called me out of the blue, I would be anxious to help in any way possible: I wouldn’t hesitate for a moment to do all that I possibly could for them.
Is this normal, is it like this for people everywhere? A worldwide, universal fact—do we all turn to our friends of adolescence in a crisis? Or is it an American thing? Or maybe a New York thing? Or maybe just a Panas thing? Or is it a WPHS Class of ’78 thing?
I don’t know. I only know it is so, for me.
I fell off the face of the earth, by choice, right after high school. We all went our own ways, but I went away hard and fast, and rather abruptly. Guys were mad at me, and I don’t blame them. For whatever reason(s), at that time I had to “get out of Dodge” and not look back.
And who do I call now, almost 40 years later, when I have a problem? A “thing”? These guys. Panas guys. My oldest Friends. My Best Friends.
Life sure is interesting, isn’t it? |
