upfromdysfunction.com

He’ll be a third baseman, no doubt. Taller, thinner perhaps, but in the RonSanto-Ron Pollack mold. Later, though. Right now Max just lifting his head, gurgling, smiling and sleeping means he’s hit for the cycle. MLB can wait.

The kid and I—we have something in common. Never was there a time that I didn’t feel loved. Ever. He’s playing in the same park.

‘ Not just nuclear family, by the way…I mean horizontal family. I’m talking aunts and uncles and cousins. Always around. It was years ago, but I knew then as I know now…that with all the tumult and all the noise comes all the love.

Hal and I, (reverentially referred to in family circles as “The Boys”), were surrounded from birth by a myriad of kinfolk, some of whom emerged from the woodwork.

WE were the lucky ones.

To our east lived the Fentons, transplanted from Detroit. The Gelfands next door had cousins in Florida and Eddie (two doors down)? He was the only child of only children. But The Boys? We had a corner house primed for Sunday pop-ins by a young, expanding clan prone to do “drive-bys.” For kids in the boomtown of South Euclid, it was idyllic. We were just never alone.

Enter Max Parker Bogart, similarly blessed.

Cradling him this weekend, cherishing the burps, the gurgles….sticking my tongue out (waiting for his smile), I couldn’t help but sense the enormous warmth around him. Not just the nuclear family either; I’m talking horizontal.

And don’t tell me kids don’t know. They know. Or at least they feel.

To this day Hal and I see the smile on Pinky’s face, the glow on Mr. Adelman…and Herschel on his head. These were not our closest relatives. (Indeed, Mr. Adelman came in the back door). But they were there. And no, we didn’t always get what was going on, but we knew what was going down. It was fun; it was love.

I’m guessing little Max enjoys the show. The house packed: Brother Steve blaming Michael’s seat for Wisconsin’s game-changing run…endless playing of the pre-recorded “Stacy Bogart” jingle…Brother Matt walking in with “Hey, Big Dogg.” It was fun. It was love.

I’m not an idiot. I know he really doesn’t know. But he DOES feel. Like we did. As a grandfather, can I be any less than thrilled? Can I be grateful enough that he’s encompassed by voice…by laughter? Plants given sunshine thrive. Max, nourished by family sunshine can’t help but be one happy camper.

I’m home now…two states away…

Out east the little tyke basks in the surroundsound of family in the spring training of his life. Healthy, eyes wide open…he’s working on a perfect game.

Another flight east! Has it been two months? Were the life cycle events of last fall that long ago?

Looking out the window, staring at an iced runway, my mind taxied across the recent past.

…It was the night of the Pidyan Haben and I was saying goodbye to Max. Tugging his right toes with my left hand, I softly kissed his forehead…twice. One for him, I thought silently, and one for Haley.

…It was the morning of New Years—the wee hours, to be exact. Midnight to 3AM. Heading back from Columbus, retrieving voice mails, I was listening:

“Happy New Year! Max misses you!” said one “When you coming to New York?”
“Happy New Year! We miss you,“ said another. “When you coming to Chicago?”
“Hey Dad, just called to wish you Happy New Year.  Love you.”

My kids are getting their wish, to be sure. The infant year is already good. Today, flying east to share kinship with those that care to, it gets even better.

He is growing, they tell me. (I’ll be there soon). She is healthy, I’m told, and am grateful.

“Can I see Haley?” I asked.
“It’s not that simple, Dad.”
“Yes it is,” I noted, “It really is.”

Love IS simple. Strikes me that anger and resentment are complicated.

The agenda this weekend is family—no more, no less. In a few hours I’ll land at LaGuardia, shoot down Northern Blvd, and go for the gusto. Pulling up to the apartment, scurrying inside, I’ll lean over the baby and gently touch my lips to his forehead…twice.

                       “We’re only as sick as our secrets.”

I debated posting this, but it’s my story. Sharing frees me up and freeing up makes it easier to rest my head at night. I’m sleeping well these days.

As “baby boomers”, we were the first generation to never live without television. I still picture the early 50’s night Channel 4 directed us to turn to Channel 3 for “The Roy Rogers Show.” It was a Sunday, a major event, and even our father was home.

My first loves, always, were sitcoms. How I remember grade school lunches! Rowland’s bell rang at 11:30 and by 11:35 we were ‘cross the street, perched in our kitchen, watching “Love That Bob.” Someday, I thought, I’d wear an open-collared VNeck shirt and being as cool as Bob Cummings. (It never quite happened).

Adolescence brought new goals. “The Many Loves Of Dobie Gillis,” the con games of Quinton McHale, the wise-cracking Buddy Sorrell—each brought larger-than-life characters for me to aspire to. Each was what I wanted to be; none…ever…was me. I never quite saw ME. Never quite had that “Aha” moment where I’d point at the TV and nod my head saying “You see that guy…that’s really me.”

Until recently.

It by accident that I met Adrian Monk. Looking for something to latch onto, having concluded an inexorable Netflix march through twenty seasons of “Law And Order”, it just sort of happened. Still, from the initial episode, I related. From the first time I saw his compulsive nonsense, his laughable fears…I “got it.” I saw myself and I cried. Watching this smart, successful cop avoiding cracks on a sidewalk, repeating ridiculous behaviors…

My nonsense started simply, through sports. CYO guys (in the ‘60’s), before hitting, carved crosses in the dirt; my bat drew a “J.” It was no different in the field. Never once (between innings), did I step on a foul line. Ever. (Clearly this got easier when moved to catcher. Thanks again, Brother Wieder).

It was for good luck, I thought, lying to myself. Bullshit! It was fear. Sugar-coated fear. Indeed, a few good seasons, a few trophies, and I feared NOT doing the things that found success. Three hits in a game: I didn’t wash the uniform. I did anything and everything to recreate—repeat the sequence that made things work. (It never quite occurred to me that maybe I could hit. There had to be more to it). Like…for more than a decade, having “salami and eggs pancake style, toasted bagel, cream cheese and coffee” for breakfast before each doubleheader.

Slowly, insipidly, I began to believe my expanding regimens were bringing results. There I was, a pretty smart kid, buying into my own idiocies. Knowing my thinking made no sense, I just couldn’t stop….”Just in case….”

Like fall of ’76. Checking into a St. Maarten hotel, we’d found roaches in our bed—on my pant leg. That night, to play it safe, I shook, then twirled my pants six times to assure their riddance. It was a regimen I would continue for thirty years….”just in case.”

Those were my salad days. Winning titles, making money…the mishigos not only continued, but expanded. Never once did I think it was fear-based. I was quirky, I thought…but it worked. The better things got on the outside, though, the worse I felt inside. As Monk would say, it was “…a blessing, and a curse.” Every good day made me prisoner to newer secret behaviors. Things I repeated….just in case.

And I told no one.

The worm, of course, finally turned. In one torrid decade my dad was gone, my marriage done, and my dysfunction blooming. Afraid of everything, I spent days looking over my shoulder and nights searching for the right combination of obsessive behaviors to turn things around. Alcohol only made it worse.

I saw all this on “Monk” that day. Cringing, I relived the years of fearing mailmen, telephones, bees, insects, romaine lettuce…and how I could never share it with anyone. Anyone. Watching “Monk” I recalled the time I’d returned to my car in the Bryden parking lot, found a squirrel in the front seat, and walked home. (In the morning a friend cleared it out).

I cried watching that show. Tears of relief. Seeing someone else with my issues, someone clearly intelligent…a protagonist…I felt OK and, dare I say….cleansed.

There were eight seasons of “Monk.” I watched them in order. All of them. One by one. The finale came Saturday, lump in my throat. It was half past four when, after 125 episodes, my friend faded to dark. Sitting there in silence, like one might after a good, long movie….it occurred to me. Watching it, watching me: it was a blessing (and a curse).

Saw Tom Gigliotti that night, (at a party). Not only a shrink, but a friend, he clearly “gets it.”

“What are you going to watch now?” he asked, knowing my penchant for serial viewing.
“Maybe ‘Mad Men’,” I offered.
“You know what Monk would do, don’t you Bogie?”
I was silent.
“He’d start all over again, Season One.”

We laughed together, and I can’t say I didn’t give it thought. It’s Tuesday, though, and I’m moving forward. Last night I met Don Draper. He’s an ad man from New York.

(We have nothing in common).

         “The only rock I know that stays steady, the one
         institution I know that works, is the family.”

                                                              Lee Iacocca

In some ways, ours was the typical post-war suburban Jewish family. There were the Brothers Bogart, two parents, (each of whom had a sibling), and four cousins. Blending in was Tier Two, a ring of great aunts and uncles buttressed by six or seven second cousins and further inseminated by a slew of nice people also termed “cousins,” although genealogists never could confirm why.

They were simpler times. Indeed, as ignorant as Hal and I were of parental discord, we were just as comforted by the social fabric of our kinfolk. But for age differences, the clan had no caste system, with all treated equally. (It took me years in fact, to realize that Cousin Howard was really my mother’s cousin—not mine, and that, for that matter that Cousin Lil, though no one’s cousin, was everyone’s relative).

The playing field was level.

I suffer not from euphoric recall. Of course there were spats. Still, the ongoing consensus mandated family trumping feud. Always. From picnics at Forest Hills to Seders in Cleveland Heights, simchas topped tsuris. When the bell rang, all were present and accounted for. Family, …the respect for family, meant leaving one’s ego at the door.

Proximity, too, helped bind our ties. “In the day” we were never far apart. From the Hoffmans on Coventry to the Hoffmans on Hermitage…perhaps three miles? Multi-generational housing, as well, was socially acceptable. There was warmth in seeing Aunt Ruth and Uncle Irv live above her parents and pride in knowing Uncle Bob bought an apartment at Shelburne and Warrensville, named it for his wife (“The Arlyne Manor”), and housed both sets of in-laws. It was all in the family.

Perhaps that’s why I struggle at times. I’ve three kids, yet none within a car drive…Perhaps too, that’s what made the other night so exciting—so rewarding.
Let the word go forth that on Tuesday, February 1, our family passed the torch to a new generation of kinship; finding an even better way to beat geography.

It wasn’t just that we Skyped. That’s old news. In our minds, though, we brought even that to a higher level.

For weeks I’d been nudging Stacy to watch “Monk.” Busy lady that she is, it never quite happened. Now I’m glad. Tuesday, you see, we saw it together. In unison with Jason… together.

Step One: she logged on to Netflix;
Step Two: Adam perched on her bed, between husband and wife;
Step Three: Angling their computer, the TV screen in Chicago blazed across my Cleveland monitor, where for the next hour, with my daughter, my son-in-law and my dog, I watched Adrian Monk, Season Eight, Episode 11.

Oh, there were slight—even welcomed interruptions, (Michael in New York thinks he’s funny and kept dialing in…Jason himself kept folding laundry….), Still, it was TV Night in the family compound(s) and together, we had gone the distance.

***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****

It will be traditional tonight.

At 5:45, dinner table set, the troops will land in Lyndhurst. Hal and Margie, the girls, Renee, and me. Shabbos, the way it should be— the way it was commanded lo those many years ago when Mel Brooks descended Mt. Sinai with fifteen—make that ten— Commandments in his hands.

I’ll marvel at them all: mother, father, kids…under one roof—the best of all worlds. Quietly though, I’ll think of my brood—all of them.

New York, Cleveland, Chicago…it mattered not. We proved this week that warm hearts melt miles. This week, after all, we went the distance.

It was an ugly day. More back ache…three courts in two counties in five hours…kids out of town…cold, gray, dreary. And that was the good part. Sixty-f#$!ing one years old—still busting my ass…..Oh well, TV on and phone off, I’m finally safe at home.

Maybe it’s the travel that’s got me down. (Well, not travel so much as virtual travel). For a guy that likes to stay put, I’ve been to Europe twice recently. Virtually.

Two weeks ago: Minding my business, screwing around on Match, an IM streamed across the Cuyahoga. Scrambling to read her profile, (this was no email; time was of the essence), I sensed something wrong, terribly wrong. She was a nurse, educated and (dare I say?), stunning. There had to be more to the story.

It’s 2011. Tired of deflecting last year’s serial and nuanced bullshit, my goal had been to stay date-free ‘til spring. Still, killing time on line, there she was and
truth be known, the subtle seduction of her note begged for response. I bit.

We rallied back and forth, but not long. I was eastside glib and, recalling the lesson from “The Rules,” opted out first. Giving it little thought and even less credence, I went to bed. By morning though, an email’d arrived: “Let’s meet at Salmon Dave’s this week,” she wrote. At 6AM it was just not a priority. I let it bake. Rocky River?

Day’s end brought coffee with Ed. Eyeing her picture, reading the email, his advice was unambiguous: “You’re crazy if you don’t meet her.”
“But we have nothing in common,” I noted.
“Including looks, asshole. I say go for it.”

Our meeting that Thursday went well and would have gone better if I understood anything that came out of her mouth. A Greek émigré, between her thick accent, short skirt and leather, it was like dining with Charro. Still, she was likable— even bubbly. Thought there might be something to pursue, but as I learned at dinner days later, I was wrong. Dead wrong. When you take away the perfume and pumps, nothing in common is still nothing in common.

My phone rang last week. “Haven’t heard from you,” (it sounded like she said).
Then, hesitating, I dropped the other F-Bomb: “You feel like a FRIEND.” (It was, for this poker player, one of the greatest pre-flop folds of my career).

Hours later it was coffee with Weiskopf: Caribou, 5PM. Same agenda.

“Just nothing to say to her,” I shared, explaining the blow off.
”Use smoke and mirrors, jackass.”
“Not my style.”
“Fine, then don’t complain the next time you’re alone.”
“Don’t worry, Dad.” I told him.

We spent forty minutes solving other problems of the world until finally, it was time to leave.

“You know,” he said crossing the parking lot, “You took points off the scoreboard.”

I pretended I didn’t hear him and kept walking. Like I said, it was a good fold.

Last weekend, hours before kickoff: “You have to hear what your son did!” shried Stacy. “Do I want to?” I asked timidly. (Sibling interactions can be coin flips).

“It was the nicest thing…I’ll forward it.”

Exhaling, I opened an MMS of Max. Clad in snow suit and carseat, (all eleven weeks of him), he was holding a sign:

                   “HI UNCLE JASON
                          GO BEARS !!”

I wondered if Michael knew how nice it was…that gesture. Unsolicited kindness is powerful stuff. A little goes a long way. My kid had no stake in the game—no emotional involvement. His brother-in-law’s heart, though, was on the line and hence: the shout out. It not only warmed this parent’s soul, but made me think….

I wonder if Marvin Baskin knew. Did he even remember that Sunday? It was fall of ’69 and Dick was yet pretty much Hal’s friend; I was the older “kid” brother. Still, when Dick’s dad got wind of the fact that I wrote, we bonded. “Did Sue ever show you my poetry?” he asked (disappearing for a moment). Moments later he returned brandishing a box of papers. “I wrote to,” he beamed. We spent the afternoon, two guys…reading, talking women, and (one of us), smoking cigars. (Could he have known that forty years later I’d still picture that day?)

Or Wieder. I tell him now and then…but still: Gordon Park! Moving me up 8 lineup spots to get my at bats in, secure my trophy! It was not only unrequested, but unexpected. As close as we were, it was special. Lifetime special.

The little things—the outside-the-box things:

Like my first years downtown. David and I ate at The Theatrical, where the athletes and powerbrokers not only hung, but had their own tables. Every time Jacobson heard we’d be there he’d have me paged. Every time. “Bogie,” he once told me, “It’s good for your career.” Somehow he’d find time in his day to make the call. I’d be sitting with Linick, lunch after lunch, and the PA’d ring out “Bruce Bogart, telephone.”

The extra kindnesses—

Like the year I ran for Outer Guard. Fenton was living on Woodway—the same street as my opponent. Stuart, of course, could care less about the lodge, but he did care for me. And so it was that the night of the other guy’s campaign meeting Stuey walked the street taking down the license plate of each person working against me. He knew I was in it to win it.

I think of the isolated cheseds often—not just today. I know well that the softest gesture can ring the loudest bell. Acts of kindness, be they random or thought out, far outlive their shelflives.

Like my brother’s friend Herman. They’ve never really met, but when Glimsher learned H liked Archie comics, he Fedexed him a boxload. Just because.

Or Bonnie. First life she played mahj with the ex. Still, to this day, there’s never a time I don’t bump into her that she’s anything but warm, caring…We talk at Heinens—sharing with, (dare I say?) pre-decree warmth. She is SO the exception to the rule.

It takes so little to do right. My kids laugh when I drive friends to the airport. Is that so bad? Really, if I’m not working, what do I have better to do? Work harder?

Hal is my closest friend. Bar none. I wonder though, if even he knows which, of all the gifts he’s given me, from birthdays to simchas to…whatever…I wonder if he REALLY KNOWS which is my favorite.

It was business cards. No more, no less.
“Open the box, “ he told me on my 60th birthday. “Read what they say.”
Ripping them open I read.
There was my name…and under my name it said “The Richest Man In Town”, and under that it said “Attorney-at-Law, Essayist and Thespian.” What it didn’t note, but what was oh so clear, was that my brother “got me.” He really got me.

And he told me that with love…the greatest gift of all.

OVERTURE (by telephone):

“I have a big bag of garbage. Would you prefer to come to the back door?”
“I don’t care.”
“Surely you must have a preference?”
“OK, the front door as usual.”
“Wouldn’t the back door be easier?”
“OK, the back door.”
“Why must you make things so difficult?”

FIRST MOVEMENT

“Please don’t start the car yet.”
“OK.”
“You should not take that person to the airport.”
“There’s nothing scheduled.”
“Do you want to know why I say this?”
“If you want me to know…if not…I don’t care—you brought it up.”
“Will you get upset if I tell you?”
“I don’t get upset.”
“And don’t put your hand on your forehead either.”
“OK.”
“Well, you are too nice to people.”
“Why would that make me mad? That’s a compliment.”
“It is not meant as one.”
“It was NOT an insult.”
“It certainly was.”
“Aunt Helen, we’re just different. You choose to punish people—I don’t.”
“I DON’T PUNISH ANYONE!!!” (a capella). “GIVE ME ONE EXAMPLE!”

—-momentary silence, and then…..

“What about Michael? Remember when you gave each of the kids Chanukah gelt except him?”
“That was not a punishment.”
“Aunt Helen…I’m not judging you. That’s how you do business…but it WAS a punishment.”
“It was no such thing. I was just severing my ties with him. Am I not entitled to do so?”
“Of course you are—but he was a kid! Can you see how others would perceive it as punishment?”
“You are stupid, and further, why do you impugn my integrity?”
“I’m not impugning your integrity—just saying we handle things differently.”
“Do you even know what the word ‘impugn’ means?”
“Yes, Aunt Helen. I know I’m not as smart as you but—-“
“You certainly are not. Just drive. Don’t speak to me.”

                         Intermission

SECOND MOVEMENT

(Accellerando) “And another thing, you once told me I find fault in everyone. I remember it well—it was right after your mother died.”
“That was two years ago.”
“Perhaps, but you have yet to name one person.”
“As I recall you were criticizing Barri Lee Cleaners and Norm Diamond and complaining about not getting a thank you from the Cleveland Institute Of Music..”
“Did I not have a right to?”

THIRD MOVEMENT

“And another thing: do you know that one out of three times you take me shopping I get upset?”
“Why do you get upset?”
“Never you mind. That is an actual statistic I’m giving you: one out of three times. Do you not believe me?”
“I not only believe you—I believe you write it down.”
“So you admit it then!”
“Aunt Helen, (staccato), do you think maybe when you’re upset you bring some of it on yourself? Do you own any piece of it?”
“No.”

—–Fifteen minutes of silence—

“Please make sure the envelopes are completely in the mail slot.”
“OK.”
“You’re just not nice.”
“I try to be. I’ve asked you to dinner but you refuse.”
“Of course I do. Surely you know why?”
“I know what you say, but I don’t know why.”
“You insist on a weekday night. How dare you!”
“Why is that bad?”
“Why should I be relegated to a week night. Surely you see your friends on Saturdays!”
“Aunt Helen—“
“You are selfish—no less.”
“Do you say the same things to Harold? Do you call him names? Is he selfish too? ”
“Never you mind about Harold. Why must you change the subject?”
“I was just wondering—“
“Until Margie chooses to talk to me I choose not to ask Harold.”
“First of all, Margie talks to you.  But let me ask you:   Are you saying that if I had a wife and she chose not to talk to you that we wouldn’t be having this conversation?  That I could get married tomorrow and put an end to this?”
“Would it hurt you to have dinner with me on a Saturday night? Surely you must eat!”
“I offered five other nights.”
“You are stupid.”

ENCORE (by telephone)

“I would like to finish our conversation of yesterday.”

Interject the first four notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony

“OK.”
“Are you willing to admit you never once asked me to join you on a Saturday night?”
“Yes, Aunt Helen.”
“So there—then I am right, am I not?”
“Yes Aunt Helen.”

Brother Michael’s turned 68. First of my adulthood friends, our kinship spans decades. Birthdays, like his today, are honored not with gifts, but with breakfast.

I’m not sure what this means (probably nothing), but when I met MJ he was the same age my son is now. We were, (believe it or not), in Bea Fried’s Studio—at dance rehearsal for a Deak play. He was the preferred candidate in the upcoming lodge election, and when the soon-to-be Outer Guard shook my hand I thought I’d touched royalty. (You have to remember, Hal and I’d been weaned on The Lodge. Our father had us in Shaker-Lee Hall long before our mother showed us to The White House. Priorities, you know).

I can still picture that night. As the new kid on the block, the only one I really knew was Jeff Schneider. Michael, on the other hand, was the Pope. Moreover, he’d just returned home, having buried his father. All eyes were on him…until they were on me, clumsily pirouetting into the star. More than once.

He was intimidating—larger than life—and I didn’t know what to expect. I waited for this Jewish Jackie Gleason to explode. What came though was a smile, and laughter. Arm around me, in his thick Philly brogue, he calmed me: “Relax, Bogie,” he said. (HE KNEW MY NAME!) “Be glad I didn’t stomp on you.” It was a moment of warmth and the first time I truly felt lodge-accepted. (Picture the end of “Casablanca” when Rick tells Renault “Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship” and they walk together into the mist).

Indeed, the friendship has been wondrous. Still, while we’ve shared a myriad of social and life cycle events, what I most treasure is the fact that my friend has never lost faith in me. Ever.

Like at lodge, where he encouraged my innovation (and controlled my damage). It was ’83, the year I was Chancellor, and the average age of our brother knights was deceased. Eyeing the future, ignoring the wisdom of 600 or so altacockers, I chose Brothers Cutler and Widman to run the all-important entertainment committee. (Think: Secretary Of State). The Deaks never got behind us; they never responded. Heck, it got so bad that one Thursday Widman sat through an entire meeting with a brown paper bag over his face—eyes and mouth cut out, introducing himself as “The Unknown Brother.” Week in, week out though, Michael kept his game face on. Night after night he stood before his peers pumping up future social events, knowing full well each was destined for failure.

It was Michael, too, that cajoled me to travel. “Bogie,” he said back then, “You’ve GOT to see San Francisco.” (I’d have rather seen Youngstown). But we went. Oh, I negotiated a stop-over in Vegas…but five, yes five glorious days were spent in that city by the bay. My then-wife loved it, but me? Counting each hour, I knew it was time for me to keep MY game face on. From Finocchio’s nightclub to Fisherman’s Wharf to Julius Castle…you’d have thought he worked for the Chamber Of Commerce.

“Bogie, you’ve got to see Napa Valley.”
“Bogie, you’ve got to get wine labels with your name!”
“Bogie, you’ve got to see Sausalito.”

I never objected; I always smiled. He was, after all, ahead of me in the lodge. No, I never bitched, never moaned…but once. We were at Hanson’s Art Gallery that very first night. My wife saw a Susan Springer painting she liked and like thunder that east coast voice crackled “Bogie, buy it. It will only go up in value.”  We abstained.

Four days passed and our bags were packed. Three hours separated us from a flight home. And then I caved. The rat-a-tat-tat of Michael’s urging brought me to my knees. No mas! Retracing steps to the gallery, we plunked down $500 on the credit card de jour. “Bogie, when the artist dies you’ll be rich,” he promised. (Ed. Note: Our marriage died in ’95; last time I looked Springer was alive and well).

Those were salad years, to be sure. But when times went south, Michael stayed. Friending me when I deserved much less, he gave not only furniture and clothing, but love. There wasn’t a year in my odyssey that he and Lana didn’t invite me to Seder or the “break fast.” Not one.

Best of all though, Michael’s championed my recovery from Day One, readily accepting my new regimen while sustaining our lifelong bond. He remains not only the link to a chunk of my past but a directional to my future growth. In tandem, the Jacobsons integrate with all Bogarts, keeping up on not only Hal’s health, but…valiantly, on Helen’s stealth.

And so it is that as he teases the ripe old age of 70, I wish Brother Michael a hearty, happy birthday. And…maybe this year, maybe even a present. But he’ll have to pick it up. It’s at a house in Beachwood and I don’t have the key. It’s on the wall, though…nicely framed.

The artist is Susan Springer.

You know how it is when you exit a dark room to be blinded by immediate light?  How your eyes aren’t quite ready for  illumination and you see more by opening the door slowly? 

Sunday morning, and in an “Ah Ha!” moment, the light bulb went on.

When Tom first mentioned abandonment issues, I’d thought it but a passing comment. “How couldn’t you?” he comforted, citing a string of unrelated events from our mom dumping our dad, to a forgetful fiancé, to decades later when a pal saw my erstwhile girlfriend on JDate. How couldn’t I? (he’d asked). Why WOULDN’T I? (I thought).

It was five years ago and he was counseling me through the obstacles of a dysfunctional liaison. Trust issues, he said (in one of our sessions together). I heard him, of course, but brushed it aside. Life was good and I was summoning courage to 86 Jodi.

It went right under the rug, his comment did. Until Sunday.

I was sitting at home, maybe 6AM. Private time. Thinking of office headaches and family discord and friends, from good guys to clowns….

As happens, my sights turned inward. Two themes surfaced in stories that kept replaying. Why is it, I asked myself yet again, that I’m always looking for that magical connection? How can I be so inclusive, so accepting of the people around me but so narrow, so restrictive in dating? It’s not ego—I assured myself….but what is it?

The answer came in the car, out of nowhere. In an instant of crystal clarity it hit me—and I didn’t like it. Maybe, (I asked myself rhetorically), maybe I still had “abandonment issues.” Perhaps I am, in my own way, protecting myself from further hurt. Safe with my family, secure with my friends, busy….perhaps it all boils down to fear—fear of further hurt.

It’s a healthy thing, this self-examination. But it’s a double-edged sword. In all the years, I’d not connected the dots—never tried. At 61, perchance I have.  That having been said, though….do I really want fill in the picture?

                       “Sign Sign everywhere a sign…”

To paraphrase the old Grouch Marx line, perhaps I shouldn’t date anyone that would go out with me.

Two, maybe three times per week I glean whatever enlightenment I can from Brother Ed. Weary from the day’s travails, huddling at Caribou, we scrutinize matters incapable of analysis, (like my dating life), neither of us afraid to laugh too loud or see too much.

Women, Ed opines, set the gold standard for mixed messages. Reveling in the dysfunction of checkered romance, he points (of course) to my past as the object lesson:

Exhibit A: It was a Sunday that Rochelle called with a question—did I have any interest in going out with so-and-so?
“Blew me off on JDate years ago,” I noted.
“Well, she saw you at Heinens and asked me to call you.”
“I’ll get back to you, “ I sputtered, a bit leery, before hanging up to phone Rooney.
“You may not like her, Dad,” warned the kid. “She’s no whack job.”
I called Rolo back; game on.

The first date went well. She was east coast nice, yet pretty. Round Two was the next Friday and I elevated my game, blatantly discarding the prototype plan (Gamekeepers first, then Little Italy).

“ ’Thought we’d go to Tremont,” I told her. “Great,” she said, “I’m thrilled to get out of the ‘hood.” Crossing the Cuyahoga, the dinner was light, flowing, and much like the first– but better. Moreover, this time there was “incidental contact”—you know, those “message” touches like the ones you get from waitresses coaxing tips.

I continued to up my game:

“We should go walking some time” I offered. (She didn’t hesitate).
“I walk every day. Saturday or Sunday?”
“How about Sunday?” I asked, (no sense suffocating her).
“Great,” she confirmed and told me she’d call that morning.

Driving home I sensed…I was sure…everything was falling into place. Indeed, did not her voice mail moments AFTER the drop off “…saying goodnight” confirm it?

One would have thought so.

It didn’t, of course, play out that way. Sure, she called as promised that Sunday morning. I was in the office on Chagrin as it went to messaging:
“Hi, Bruce…It’s raining…” she said, blowing me off.

I looked outside and saw but clouds. Called Ed.  Clear skies on Cedar!

“I’m on my way, “ I told him, somewhat pissed. “Why can’t they just play by the rules? “ I thought. “Why can’t they just be consistent?”

The post-mortem was brutal: “How could you f#*! it up between Friday night and Sunday morning?” he asked. “What could she have found out about you in 36 hours?” he laughed. (We both did).

Her disinterest bothered us less than the mystery of it all. Women in their fifties know how to say No to a date. Who makes a date just to break it? What WERE we missing? An hour of analysis left us empty and the case closed. “It’s not you,” my friend said, “Not this time.”

I believed him.

Ed opts not to date. He gets the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat through his friend. Me? I can handle rejection. Just don’t shield me with warmth.

Like one of recent vintage: Two dates and her Facebook wall dubbed me “a keeper.” Before I saw her next she’d installed the Browns’ offense: 3 and out.

Stu says I think too much and Ed says I date too much and my son, of course, says I share too much. They may all be right.  I enter yet another weekend with no special plans—all well and good….

I am what I am, I suppose. I’ll continue to think, date, write and smile. But I won’t go back to Tremont. Ever.  There’s way too much to learn at the coffeehouse.

            “…So I got me a pen and a paper and I made up my own little sign
            I said thank you Lord for thinking about me, I’m alive and doing fine….”