DESSERT

a short-ish story based on real events

         I guess it was a morning pretty much like any other. Except this particular morning I was tying a tie, which is something I hardly ever do. I somehow feel like I never quite got it right, the art of tying a tie, that is. Somehow the finished product always seems to come out a bit lopsided and I’m lucky if the tie doesn’t end up hanging out four inches below my belt or halfway up my shirt, like an Oliver Hardy impersonator. That morning I was standing there in front of the mirror tying this tie, but I was actually looking at my face instead of whatever my hands were doing. I was looking at all the little lines around my eyes and around my mouth and how there’s hair in my ears and how I look so old. Not that it really bothers me or anything, but every once in a while you notice how much it all sneaks up on you.

      Anyway, I finished tying the tie and it only looked slightly cockeyed. My gaze focused on the mirror itself and the room in the reflection behind me. It was an old mirror, really old. It had come with the house and almost all the silvering had come off around the edges, and I liked to let my imagination run wild sometimes and picture all the faces and all the things that have been reflected in this very mirror. I thought to myself how much I loved this little house and about how life had brought me here in the first place.
      I grew up in a little town in Pennsylvania called Hazleton. I guess Hazleton is a nice enough place, except for the fact that there’s nothing there. Well, I suppose there is something in Hazleton, if you consider a Sonic, a Store 24 and a Residence Inn to be something. I worked at the Residence Inn.
      I guess it was a pretty decent job. We had good benefits and insurance, and the pay wasn’t bad, although you had to be good at budgeting your money because we only got paid twice a month. After six years I had worked my way up to supervisor, which really didn’t mean very much beyond the fact that I was a desk clerk who had to monitor when the housekeepers went on break and once in a while had to fill in for a shift manager when they went on vacation. That and like 25¢ more an hour. I could conceivably have stayed on with Residence Inn for the rest of my life, working my way up through the hierarchy and retiring with a nice Buick Regal and a 401(k). For the most part I was fine with that, especially considering that I had just barely squeaked by in community college and there weren’t all that many prospects in Hazleton. But a part of me was alarmed at the potential of a lifetime career of wearing a brass nametag and a phony smile.
      Then, my father died. 
      My mom died when I was only four and in all honesty, I have no memory of her at all. On my dresser I have one of those sort of idealized, soft-focus Olan Mills portraits of her and my dad from before I was born, so I try to imagine that face, looking down at me and singing lullabies and stuff. Although, sometimes I think I do remember her when I’m dreaming and in the morning before the cobwebs clear, I think I come the closest to remembering what she was like.
      My dad took good care of me, we got along pretty well and he always made sure I was fed and clothed and got to school on time. I suppose that’s really about all a child can ask from a parent in the end. But Dad had his life and I had mine. When we sat down together alone we just never seemed to have that much to say to one another. When I turned 21 and I’d finished at community college, I got my own apartment in Hazleton. I moved out of the house during the afternoon when my dad was at work so we never had that moment when we had to say goodbye to one another and then sort of awkwardly decide if we were going to hug or just sort of let it go. 
      Six years passed by, more or less. We only really talked a few times a year. I would go over on Thanksgiving and on Christmas. I took him out for dinner a couple of times for his birthday and he’d call me every once in a while to tell me that somebody from the office had just croaked, as he put it, or that the doctor had changed his Coumadin dose again. I had my job at the hotel and he had his poker buddies, and somehow I think it was easier for both of us to just not call rather than try to fill all the pregnant silences.
      But then the phone rang one morning and it was the Luzerne County Medical Examiner’s Office telling me that they regretted to inform me that my father had passed away. 
      “You mean croaked,” I said to the voice on the phone.
      “Excuse me, sir?” she said.
      “Never mind,” I said. “Inside joke.”
      Anyway, fast-forward a couple of weeks. Past the funeral, past the signatures and the estate appraisals and the billable hours and all of that. I found myself on the other side with a $750,000 inheritance from my old man. 
      For a while I just carried on like usual, going to work at the hotel and finding a kind of comfort in the numbness of the ordinary. 
      Then, I ordered take-out from the Golden Dragon one night. I was watching a movie on cable, some dystopian epic about the enslavement of the masses. When I had finished my Peking dumplings, which were delicious by the way, I cracked open the fortune cookie. The fortune inside read “Time for a change. Lucky numbers 3-17-23-46”
I looked up at the television. At that very moment a monochrome, downtrodden army of identically miserable workers was being marched off to the factories on the screen. I thought to myself that the grey of their factory jumpsuits was the exact color of the company-issued sportcoat I put on every morning at the Residence Inn.
      I looked back down at the tiny piece of paper in my hand: Time for a change.
      Long story short, I ended up moving here to New Sisily.
      New Sisily is a tiny town covering barely more than a square mile in the middle of Cape Cod. You’ll never find it on a map though. Technically it’s not even a town at all but a giant parcel of privately owned real estate allowed to exist because of some creative legislation in the 1780s which nobody ever saw much point in amending. As the legend goes, it was founded by a small group of people who broke away from the Mayflower Pilgrims and rejected their joyless, Puritan ways. They named it after the Italian island of Sicily, which to the 17th century English mind was as exotic and faraway as Bali Ha’i. It has since been the home of a few souls, currently about 150, mostly the type of people who have come here to be left alone and live their lives in peace. Like me, I guess. There is really not much here, a lot of old houses and one church-shaped building which was never consecrated. Nevertheless, everyone still calls it the church and nowadays people mostly use it for birthday parties and sometimes a cookout on July Fourth. Just behind the church is a huge forty-acre cemetery which was willed to the town by one of its founding fathers. Even after more than 300 years of history, only a tiny fraction of its land is actually inhabited, as it were, by the town’s dead. 
      I came across New Sisily by way of a real estate agent who was showing me this little house on Churchyard Road. Churchyard Road is an offshoot on the far side of the cemetery, more or less removed from the rest of the town, a sort of Victorian cul-de-sac. 
      The little road originally led to a single cottage built for the sexton, whose duty it was to look after the burial ground. It seems that at some point during the 1850s, the sexton converted to Mormonism, promptly adopted the practice of plural marriage and built eight small, identical homes, one for each of his eight wives. I’ve been told that my house was originally built for his fourth wife, someone with the rather melodic but unfortunate name of Prudence Apostrophe Motherwell. 
      As soon as I laid eyes on the house I knew that this was where I was going to live. It was a typical Cape Cod, 1850s four-by-four, but it looked as if it had been built by a master model-maker at ¾-scale. I had enough money to buy the place outright and still live for a few years without really having to work or worry about money too much. 
      So, that’s what I’ve been doing. I work now and then, odd jobs or a fill-in when someone needs help at their shop or what-not. But for the most part I sleep in, write a little bit, read a lot and go for walks. Plus like anyone else, a good portion of the day is devoted to stuff like cooking and eating and making sure the house is clean and that sort of thing.
      There was this woman who lived across the street from me, where the third wife lived originally I guess, whose name was Mrs. Chandler. On her mailbox though, which sat slightly askew at the end of her walkway, the letter C had long since worn away, so in my mind I always thought her name was Mrs. Handler. Even now that I know better, I still think of her that way sometimes. 
      Anyway, Mrs. Chandler was sort of an odd person, perhaps a bit of a recluse, but who isn’t in New Sisily? I know I could say the same about myself. People told crazy stories about her, that she had poisoned a few husbands down in Texas, that she had taken one too many peyote trips back in the Sixties, that she was a Holocaust survivor and was haunted by the things she’d seen. I watched her when she left her house to get her mail or make a trip into town. She was old but she looked strong. Her eyes were clear and she always kept her hair neatly done in a long, thick grey braid down the middle of her back. I did notice that her curtains were always closed. She could have been hoarding all kinds of ugly or unsanitary secrets inside of that house. But she always kept her yard and her little flower beds nice, so in the end I decided that she was probably just old and misunderstood. 
      Then one morning, May 13, five years ago to be exact, I was going for a walk. It was a morning when all of spring’s promises had finally been fulfilled. The Easter-egg colors of April had given way to the serious shouts and screams of the reds, oranges and greens of summer and the air smelled like cut grass and dandelions. I was walking through the cemetery when I saw Mrs. Chandler. She was dancing.
      She had on a beautiful dress, the sort of dress you would expect a woman of her age to wear to a niece’s wedding or a good friend’s funeral, but her feet were bare. She had spread a blanket nearby, upon which sat a bottle of champagne, two glasses and a small radio. I could hear a Glenn Miller tune being blown to me on the breeze. She danced, her back to me, her old body swaying gently as she shifted her weight from foot to foot, looking from my vantage point as if she were entranced. Then she spun around and I saw that her eyes were closed. Until she opened them and seemed startled to see me standing there. She let out a nervous little laugh and I remember feeling surprised because it sounded like the laugh of a young girl.
      “Oh, hello young man,” she said, smiling. She was blushing and I couldn’t help smiling back.
      “Hello,” I said.
      “Would you like to dance?” she asked me.
      My first instinct was to look around me. Looking for what? To see if anyone was watching? There was no one there. Was I looking for an excuse, a reason to say no?  
      “Well, OK, sure. Why not?” I stepped onto the grass with her.
      Sometimes it’s hard to let go of ourselves. We can sing like Pavarotti in the shower but wouldn’t dare sing out loud in the subway. We can write stories of epic bravery and be scared senseless of enclosed spaces. It’s hard to dance like nobody’s watching, as the song says. And so it was that day. I stepped up to dance in a graveyard with a barefoot old woman who may or may not have poisoned her husbands in Texas. For a few seconds it felt awkward, really weird, and I was wondering what in the hell I was doing there. But then I listened to Glenn Miller and held that lady in my arms and we did dance like nobody was watching, because nobody was. When the song ended we both laughed and then the awkwardness came back, but only for a second. 
      “Can I ask you a question?” I said.
      “Seems fair,” she answered, pouring two glasses of champagne.
      “What exactly are you doing out here?”
      “I’m dancing,” she told me. “I’m dancing on my own grave.”
      "OK,” I said. Then I said, “Why?”
      Her eyes flashed and she laughed again, like a little girl. “Because I can, young man. Because I can!” She handed me a glass. “Here, have a seat. Would you like to hear a story?”
      “Sure."
      We both sat down on the grass, on what I supposed would one day be Mrs. 
Chandler’s final resting place.  “What is your name, young man?” 
      “Victor Wallace.”
      “Well, Victor Wallace, have you ever heard of Evansville, Indiana?”
      In a way, I felt bad that I hadn’t. “Well, no, I can’t say that I have.”
      “Figures,” she said. “Third-largest city in the state of Indiana and nobody has ever heard of it.”
      “Sorry.” 
      “Yeah, well. That’s where I used to live, before I moved here to New Sisily. Evansville, Indiana.”
      We sipped that fine French champagne at 9:30 in the morning and I listened as she told me her story. She had been married to a guy she really loved, a guy she met the summer after graduating high school. They didn’t have any kids. He loved his Marlboros so much that he dropped dead of a heart attack when they were both only 43. She never remarried. Her family all died off and she was living her life as pretty much a solitary entity. That part of her story sounded pretty familiar. She was down to one good friend, a woman named Bernice May. 
      “No matter what,” she told me, “No matter what shit, pardon my French, had hit the fan that particular year, Bernice and I would take each other out to eat on our birthdays. Oh, how I used to look forward to those lunches!” She clasped her hands and looked off into the distance for a moment, remembering. 
      “Then came my 60th birthday. 1992.” 
      Her face clouded over and she took a big swallow of champagne. 
      “Bernice had called me the night before. 'We’ll have to make it for breakfast, Miriam,' she told me. 'I finally got in to see that sonofabitch doctor over in Henderson.' So, we made a date for JoJo’s, a little place attached to the Drury Inn in Evansville. 
      Oh, that breakfast was lovely. I had a nice cheese omelet with bacon and all the coffee I could drink. When I had finished my omelet, I grabbed the menu from behind the napkin dispenser on the table. I was looking at the ice cream sundaes and the cakes and things, even though it was only about nine o’clock in the morning. I looked across the table at Bernice and I said to her, 'Bernice, I know it’s early but I do believe I’m going to have dessert!'
      And that was when the world came to an end.”
      Mrs. Chandler went on to tell me how a C-130 Hercules military aircraft crashed at that very moment into JoJo’s Restaurant in Evansville, Indiana. Glass, noise, fire, dust, confusion and the next thing she knew, she was still sitting there holding that menu, alive and unscathed but her last remaining friend had just been vaporized before her eyes.
      I struggled to find something to say but couldn’t. 
      “Can you imagine?” she said.
      “No," I answered her. "No I can’t.” 
      “Not long after that, I moved out here. And not long after that," she said, patting the grass we sat upon, "I bought this here little plot. I mean, Jesus, if I’ve learned anything at all from all this, it’s that you never know when your number is going to be up. A plane, a goddamn airplane, can fall out of the clear blue sky at any moment and obliterate you. Or me. Now, every year on my birthday, which is also the day I cheated Death, I come out here and dance on my own grave. It’s my little tradition.”
      “And that’s today,” I said.
      “Yes, that’s today.”
      “Why two champagne glasses?” 
      “I always brought a glass for Bernice, or for Tommy, or maybe for Death himself. Maybe we have a standing date for today. But today they’re not here. You are. So today, I brought it for you.”
      I sat there and took my shoes off. We finished the champagne and talked a bit. She was a nice lady, she was just misunderstood. After a while, I put my shoes back on and said goodbye. I felt like she might need some time alone with Bernice and Tommy and whatever other ghosts she was visiting.
      The next year on May 13, I couldn’t help but go there again. And there she was, in her Sunday best with a fine bottle of wine. We danced. She laughed in that little-girl way of hers. We drank champagne and we talked.
      And then the next year I got dressed up too, and I brought some crusty French bread and some cheese and purple grapes. The year after that it rained, but we danced anyway in our best clothes. We danced to life and we danced with Death, and then we ran back to her house to drink the Veuve Clicquot.
      I had never been inside her house before. Part of me still half-expected to find a scary mess, but I was relieved to learn the real reason why she never opened her curtains. It was art, covering every available wall or flat surface. And it was beautiful. I don’t know much about what’s valuable or what isn’t when it comes to art, but I know something beautiful when I see it. She had filled her little home with splendor, moments frozen, unalterable, immune from unforeseen disaster. Her curtains were drawn to protect it all from the sun. 
      The next year, last year, I put on my suit and a brand new shirt and tie which I had bought especially for Mrs. Chandler’s birthday. I walked to the cemetery shortly before nine, which was the time when the airplane had fallen out of the sky in Indiana. She was not there. 
      I walked over to her plot and waited for a while. I sat down, listening to the persistent buzz of late spring insects. I kept expecting to see her walking around the curve in the pathway with her bottle of wine and transistor radio. She never came.
      I walked over to her house and I knocked on the front door. 
      “Mrs. Chandler?” I said. “Miriam?” 
      No answer.
      I walked around the back and tried that door. It was unlocked. I opened it and knocked at the same time. “Hello? Mrs. Chandler? Anybody home?” Nothing.
I smelled coffee. A cup sat half empty on the counter, still steaming slightly. On the table sat a bottle of French champagne and two glasses, a small blanket folded neatly and a radio. 
      I walked into the living room. She sat there on the couch, in a lovely dress that I had not seen before. On the coffee table in front of her sat an old, scorched menu from JoJo’s Restaurant in Evansville, Indiana. She looked OK. She was not breathing. She had kept her standing date.
      A few days later, only the funeral director and I stood at Mrs. Chandler’s plot in the cemetery.  He turned to me. “You know,” he said, “she took care of everything beforehand. All the arrangements.” He paused, looking at me. “Except for one thing. An epitaph.”
      “An epitaph?”
      “Do you think she would have wanted one?”
      I thought for a moment. “Yeah. I do think she would have liked one.”
      The funeral director’s face brightened, although his brow remained furrowed in a carefully cultivated expression of condolence. “Really? Would you mind writing it down for me?”

      Anyway, when I had finished tying my tie I grabbed the champagne out of the fridge, although only a split this time and just one glass. 
      Her granite headstone stood, new and proud and ready to face the ages. I opened the champagne, put my phone on speaker and found the Glenn Miller song I had downloaded especially from iTunes. I took off my shoes and danced. I remembered Miriam and my dad, and Bernice May and the mom whose face I can’t picture. I reminded myself that an airplane, a goddamn airplane could fall out of the sky at any moment.
      When the song ended, I sat down in front of Mrs. Chandler’s headstone. I wiped some morning dew from the words carved into the granite.
      “I know it’s early,” they read, “but I do believe I’m going to have dessert!”

A CRISIS OF FAITH

There was this kid. His name was James. I never met him, but he grew up in America in the 1970s and 80s, so there are a few things about him that I can be fairly certain about.  Pretty sure that somewhere in his mom’s house is a picture of him, sitting on the lap of a department store Santa or Easter Bunny, bearing what looks to all the world like a huge grin; although she knows that in reality he was screaming bloody blue murder about five seconds after the picture was taken. He probably went off to college, full of bravado and ready to take on the world, but at least once during those first few days, when no one was looking, he probably hugged himself in his bed and maybe even wept a little because he was realizing that the world is a lot scarier than he realized and he missed the solace of being home. He was from New England, so it’s fairly likely that he at least raised a glass to the Sox when they finally won the World Series.
Then, a couple of days ago, James was forced to kneel next to a thug in black pajamas and recite some vitriol against the United States. At which point, the terrorist, whose face was covered, slit his throat and cut off his head with a huge knife. 
All I can do is imagine this man’s fear and anguish and terror as the last few seconds of his life unfolded. It makes me sick and creates a knot in the pit of my stomach.
We’ve seen it before. Daniel Pearl. Others. We’ll see it again, perhaps over just the next few days.
What’s happened to me, though, is that this latest atrocity, this latest murder most foul, has triggered in me a kind of crisis of faith. But not a crisis in my own faith, but in this “faith” of others. How, I am beginning to wonder, can one of the world’s “great” religions, keep engendering this kind of barbarism? Today, I realized that I do not personally know a single Muslim. I wish I did, because I need someone to sit down and discuss it with. I want to know, how do these events make the ordinary, go-to-Mosque-on-Friday, everyday Muslim feel? Are they Sunni? Are they Shiite? Do they hate the other? Do they hate the infidel? 
It’s all just beyond my comprehension. I try to wrap my brain around it by translating it into terms that I can understand. Can any of us imagine blood running in the streets because the Methodists are at war with the Presbyterians? No. The concept is so absurd as to be laughable. Can we picture an army of Hindu Swamis, blowing up a Buddhist temple in Thailand as “an affront to Hinduism?” 
That’s not to say that other religions are blameless. Christians committed numerous heinous acts of genocide and terror in the name of God during the crusades and the colonization of the New World. They still perpetrate crimes in the name of religion as they murder doctors and women as they exercise their right to choose. But for the most part, we’ve evolved. We’ve grown to see the value in human life, even if it belongs to a human who looks different than us or who prays to a different god. 
So, lately I’ve been having these thoughts. They’re bad thoughts, unpopular thoughts, un-PC thoughts. I see images of men being herded into fields, forced into ditches and massacred; looks no different to me than what happened in the forests of Poland and the Balkans during the 1940s. I hear stories of innocent, ordinary people being given a choice to change their religion (thereby denouncing their own God), leave their homes, or die. Considering that these people have nowhere to go, it’s not much of a choice. And then I feel the pain of another American man, not all that different from me, murdered in the most grisly, horrifying, and public way imaginable. And I can’t help but wonder: is this “religion” really legitimate? I begin to think the words that nobody wants to say out loud. Is this religion really about God and Love at all? Or is it something else, something far worse, something that is, dare I say it, Evil? Where are the millions, billions, of, “righteous” Muslims, who must be appalled by all this hate and violence? Why do they not rise up? 
As I said, unpopular sentiments. Dangerous, even. But these are the things I wonder. Evil does exist in this world. Could it be that one of the greatest “religions” on Earth has been a wolf in sheep’s clothing all along? 
I wish someone could explain it to me.
I know that, in the end, Good will win, Love will prevail. It always does. It has to. I just don’t know how much more of this pain we can inflict on one another in the name of God.

AUGUST 16

Today is Josh’s birthday. He is my nephew. He was born, Joshua Thomas Halley, on August 16, 1989.
Then, just a few days after Thanksgiving in 2011, I got one of those phone calls while I was at work, one of those calls that you never think you’ll get, which you can never see coming. My sister-in-law was telling me that Josh had lost his life behind the wheel of an automobile. He was only 22. 
It’s hard to describe the feeling when you hear something like that. For me, it was as if my whole environment sort of changed instantly; the people and things around me suddenly lost focus and I was suddenly walking through some kind of dream world. It’s difficult to even comprehend that it is really happening at all. As a matter of fact, I finished my shift at work that day, although I have no memory of it and I can’t imagine how I was behaving. Probably like some kind of PharmTech robot. 
At any rate, once reality actually set in, most of my thoughts were, and have been ever since, about my brother and Josh’s mother Beth, and my niece, Josh’s sister, Brittany. To me, the enormity of their grief somehow dwarfed my own, their loss and despair so great that I didn’t even have a frame of reference for it. So in a way, it’s been easy for me to sort of set my own feelings aside as somehow insignificant or even anecdotal. 
Birthdays are weird. Other peoples’ birthdays, that is. While they’re around, birthdays are a reason for a party, a reason to cut cake, unwrap presents and make wishes. They are day to marvel at how far we’ve come. But after we’ve lost someone, their birthday becomes a bittersweet anniversary. It’s a day when we try to appreciate the gift we were given, the time we were allowed to have with that person, but it also becomes a day when old wounds can feel especially fresh, and we can really ache with the missing of that person. 
So has this day become for our family. Once again, I imagine the guts of my brother and his family, tying up in knots as August 16 draws near. But even for Josh’s uncle, way up here by himself in Massachusetts, the day has gravitas. I want to write about it, but it’s exceptionally hard.
Funny, for someone like me, who finds his most eloquent voice in the written word. With inspiration, it is easy to write like a maniac, struggling for your fingers to keep up with the ideas bouncing around in your head. Other times, you can stare at the proverbial blank page for hours and- nothing. 
For me, sometimes it’s easy to write flip little stories: amusing, ironic quips and the occasional clever turn of a phrase. But when it comes to writing about anything really personal and potentially distressing, it’s something I approach with trepidation, if at all. Part of the process would involve the intentional removal of carefully placed bandages to closely examine a potentially gruesome injury. 
I felt this way a year or so ago, when I had spent a week in Baltimore as my father languished in the hospital. I knew, along the 10-hour train ride home, that I would probably never see my father alive again. I took out my laptop, flipped it open and turned it on, knowing that this was something I should write about. I should somehow take the things I had seen, and heard and felt over the previous week or so, and even what I was seeing and feeling at that very moment on the Amtrak train somewhere in Delaware, and write it all down. But it was too hard, too real, and too scary, like staring at your own face in the mirror on LSD. So, I watched “Skyfall” on DVD instead.
Anyway, over the past few weeks, as this day drew nearer, I would occasionally chide myself that I needed to commemorate Josh’s birthday this year the best way I could, by writing about it. But how? Every time I tried to think about it, I just kept saying to myself that I just didn’t know him well enough.
So I guess that’s what I have to write about. I didn’t know him well enough.
I flew the coop early in life. I moved out of my parents’ house for the first time when I was only 17 years old, and for the last time when I was 18. As Jimmy Somerville said in “Smalltown Boy”, “Mother will never understand why you had to leave, but the <answers you seek> can never be found at home.” 
I had moved to Provincetown by the time I was 24, long before Josh was even born. I had a fabulous life going, young, single, independent, self-sufficient, all of that. But there’s always a trade-off, whether you know it or not. And my trade-off was that I was absent from my family. I suppose it still is.
Of course, like many gay people, I did feel a certain amount of alienation from my family, so I didn’t really spend much time thinking that I was missing anything. It’s only when you reach my age when you realize that while that alienation may have been real, it was, and is, to a great degree, largely self-imposed.
So, while I was here, mourning deaths, falling in love, celebrating holidays that my family knew nothing about, I was missing all those milestones back home. And now, when I think about Josh, I keep thinking, “I just didn’t know him well enough.”
One thing I did know about Josh was that he definitely had a wicked, twisted sense of humor, much like my own, and much like all the Halleys, as a matter of fact. While he was alive, I found myself thinking that I couldn’t wait until he was A Man, when he came to visit me with his wife and a couple of bratty kids, he and I would be hanging out telling funny, ironic stories about our lives that only grown-ups can relate to, or maybe laughing at the same sick movie that only he and I found funny. I kept thinking that later would be better. So I missed my chance.
There are other things which I do know about Josh. I could say that I know he liked things like Skittles and Mountain Dew, but that sort of thing just ends up sounding silly and trivial. I know that his friends called him “Cheese”, which makes me smile even though I’m not sure why they called him that. I actually asked some of his friends what it meant, at his funeral, but they just sort of looked at one another uncomfortably as if there was no way in hell they were about to explain that to some lame old man. What they don’t know is that that alone makes me smile, too. 
My nephew Josh came to my wedding. That may not be a big deal to some people, in some families, but to me it’s a different story. As Politically Correct it is to be pro-Gay, pro-Marriage Equality, pro-Diversity these days, I am fully aware that “faggot” is still just about the worst epithet you can throw at a white, teenaged male in this country. Not a whole lot of young men are going to stand up proudly in the lunchroom and announce that they have an uncle in Massachusetts who is “Gay-Married”. (back then I think we were still the only state that even recognized same-sex marriage and it was still sort of a novelty) So, I applaud Josh’s courage and his own self confidence which allowed him to come and participate.
I think Josh struggled with the same stuff I have struggled with, which his dad undoubtedly struggles with. I think he had very strong ideas about his own definition of “success”, and he struggled to find the balance between living a life full of joy and pleasure and self-actualization, versus a world which demands conformity and drudgery and self-denial. I still have a hard time finding the sweet spot. But I believe that Josh knew deep down what the right answers were. I think he would have found himself a life full of beauty and prosperity both, had he only been given the time. And I think that there is where my own grief for him lies.
Josh had the most amazing eyes. Anyone who ever met him will tell you that. Their beautiful, bright blue color and the long, dark lashes I like to think he inherited from the Halley side of the family. Their beautiful, almond shape he undoubtedly got from his mom. If the eyes, as so many have said, are indeed windows to the soul, then Josh’s eyes showed us the merest glimpse of a miraculous, delightful, playful and wise spirit.

Happy birthday, Josh.
Uncle Paul

Have you ever heard a pile-driver? No, not heard of a pile-driver, but actually heard a pile-driver? Well, a year or two after I first moved to Provincetown, which, admittedly, was a very long time ago, they did some work on MacMillan Wharf, the main pier in town. As you can imagine, the work included a pile-driver, which in layman’s terms is a giant kind of hammer-thingy designed to drive piling for the pier deep into the ground beneath the water. They are unbelievably loud, but for a few months we became accustomed to periods during the day when it sounded like someone was firing off a cannon every few seconds right in the middle of town. We eventually got sort of used to dealing with the noise, like people who live near an airport and learn to suspend their sentences for a few moments every time an Airbus A380 flies overhead.
Only slightly less deafening than a pile-driver is another tool called a masonry saw. This is a tool which is designed to cut things like bricks, concrete, porcelain and stone. They start up harmlessly enough, the somewhat benign hum of an electric motor. But that all changes the moment the blade gets down to business, as it were, and actually starts cutting brick or concrete, at which point it makes a sound I can only compare to the sound of Satan’s fingernails being dragged across the chalkboard at a reform school in hell.
Many of you who knew me in my youth may remember me as, shall we say, not exactly a morning person. As a child, also, admittedly, a very long time ago, my mother would struggle just to get me out of bed in the morning, at which point I would stumble down the stairs only to fall face-first onto the couch and fall right back to sleep. In my 20s, it wasn't unusual for me to arise at noon or even one in the afternoon; but by that point it was more often due to the fact that I hadn’t “fallen asleep” until sometime around dawn in the first place. Things have changed, though. I am over 50 now, and when it comes to sleeping habits I have grown to resemble the more mature, prune juice-and-Matlock set more than the younger, vodka-and-Red Bull crowd. That is to say, I sometimes find myself nodding off in front of the TV at 8:30 at night, and sleeping in much past 7:30am is a rare and treasured occurrence.
So, today is my day off. I swam almost to the surface of consciousness this morning some time around 8:45. It was a beautiful, crisp Cape Cod morning, the slightest breeze was blowing in the window and off in the distance morning birds chirped with the satisfaction of a belly full of early worms.
I wasn’t quite awake, only on the verge of being so, so my thoughts were not being formed in words, more in feelings and notions, and they went something like this:
“Mmmm. Warm. Dog. Pillow. Cat. Comfortable. Sleep. Sleep in! Mmmm. Zzzzz…”

“Fuck that,” said the guy with the masonry saw, working 10 feet from my bedroom window.