28 August 2008

Kindness of Strangers


I’m kind of a pack rat when it comes to keeping stuff. I sometimes keep things for years before I finally rediscover them, and toss them in the trash, wondering why in the world I kept them for so long. Empty booze bottles, for instance, used to turn up now and again, usually with some long forgotten memento scribbled on the label that seemed really important at the time. In most cases, I couldn’t even remember what my cryptic messages meant. It’s funny how some things that seem so important one day fade to the point that we can’t remember them at all. How many times have you said to yourself, “I’ll never forget this,” and then be reminded years later only to answer with a “Huh? What? Did we?” Good times.

Anyway, as I was going through some old papers not long ago, I came across something I thought I’d lost a long time ago. It was a letter from a stranger, to me, a letter from someone that I do not know, and to this day, have never met. It is without a doubt the oddest letter I have ever received, and I’m willing to bet it is the oddest one I will ever receive as long as I live. I’m so glad I found it because I was beginning to think it never really existed except in my mind. The letter came to me during the most tumultuous time in my life, a time when my usually routine world had gone completely and horribly askew…and I couldn’t remember a thing about it. The letter writer had helped me in my most desperate hour and wished me well; she spoke to me as if we had known each other for years, and offered advice as only a true friend can. Again, I have never met her. I don’t believe I’ve ever written of this (or at least, I can’t remember…good times, huh?). Here’s the story:

Now, in case you don’t know, there is a HUGE motorcycle party in New Hampshire every year. It is the oldest bike rally in the country and any old school biker will tell you that Laconia is second only to Sturgis; many like Laconia better. On Wednesday, June 13th, 1997 I had a motorcycle accident in Gilford, New Hampshire, just outside of Laconia. I don’t remember the accident. We were drinking at a bar called the Broken Antler. I was playing pool with a girl from Connecticut, and I remember being totally smitten with her northeastern accent. She was wearing a yellow midriff-baring tank top and she had great tits. I was winning, and I was hoping that maybe I’d get to take her back to the campground to see if things could get any better. I was having a great time. I was drinking, but I was not fall down drunk; my friends would never have let me ride if I had been. I was playing pool with the girl from Connecticut on Wednesday night…and then…

I woke up Sunday night. As soon as I opened my eyes, I knew something really bad was going on. My dad was there. My ex wife was there. I was in a hospital bed. My hands hurt really, really bad. My legs were on fire. Did I mention I was in a hospital bed? Not really sure how I got from the bar to here, where my dad was, I asked him, “What happened?” He said I had been in a motorcycle accident. I can’t tell you how shocked and embarrassed I was. I thought to myself, “I crashed my motorcycle? I don’t remember doing that!” I looked at my hands, which were throbbing, and they were swollen and bruised; I absurdly thought someone had put purple boxing gloves on me while I was asleep. I looked at my legs and they were both wrapped in a blue plastic bubble wrap kind of stuff that was really warm. And they hurt. Bad. Real bad. My father said I had broken both of my femurs and that I had survived a closed head injury that was so severe the doctors didn’t fix my broken legs for several hours because they weren’t sure if I was going to pull through at all. That’s why he was there. He had come to collect my body.

Months of excruciating pain followed; I have never been so down in my life. I couldn’t walk down stairs for four months. I couldn’t walk at all without a walker. I lay in a bed in my house, my prison, and cried alone in the dark. I cried because I hurt and because I couldn’t walk like a man and because I could hear my unfaithful ex wife cavorting downstairs with any number of boyfriends. It was awful. But, like all things, it passed, and within 8 months or so I was able to function by myself again. As soon as I could walk I threw my ex out. I had kept her around because I needed someone to help me, and I felt a little guilty for that, but one does what one has to do. But anyway, once I was up and around, I found the box where my dad had stashed all my belongings from the accident. It had languished in my garage, next to my broken motorcycle for nearly a year. Here was a pair of bloody jeans, there the remnants of every article of clothing I had been wearing, and all kinds of stuff that was familiar. It was my stuff, but from another lifetime. I looked at each thing and tried to remember why I had it, and some of it was a complete mystery. At the bottom of the box, though, was an envelope with no address, and I could tell when I picked it up that there was a note in it, and I could feel that it was several pages, folded up to fit. I took it out of the envelope and looked at it. It was printed and I did not recognize the handwriting. What follows is the letter, exactly as it was written:

June 13th, 1997
Dear Jeff –
Me and Ximius was ridin round aftah the weird beech slowded down totha nite and by gawd we went out ta see the guvnah on his eyeland afta werds on the way home and thar were this assident rite aftah the guvnahs place – well by gawd this wooman was a hoppin rownd and we seed lites and sumbody liftin a hed offen the side the road and we stopped and popped our skyroof opened and yelled hollered “Doyou knead help? and them didn’t answer – now Jeff – we knowd yew couldn’t ansah and we seed nother cah comin and was gonna hit us so we got going – now we did not speed or nuthin and we thunk – hell – we’s paking milk now and we wear short shorts and wiggle and put ginger bread and p-nut butter dog shits on bykes an all – take pichas of theese bykes – cuz we like em!! So we said hell – mebbe they don wan nobody ta know thet them packin licka but by gawd a DWI ain’t as bad as a ded guy so we wen fassass we could and fownd a poe leeceman and tole him bowt ya cuz we ain’t got no phone in cah – him took off and got help so fass you would beeleeve it – now we ustah be alkeeholic and we ustah ride byke too and we knowd bowt them DWI’s real close up like cuz we got one – long tyme ago but we got one sure as shit – we still drank a while afta but we was glad we could hep you – now ifn you kneed hep – we’d be glad to hep you – ain’t got nun money but we sureas hell live in NH and would hep you in court if necessary. hope we did right thang by yah and hope you ain’t mad none we is care about you guys and we hope yer byke ain’t ded none neetha – Hope them doctah’s down keel ya neetha – they’s bastads they ahe! We jis happened ta bein konkid and we’ll try to git this to yah otherwise we’ll send it to yer hometown!! Gawd bless ye – Paula (smiley face) 10 Shackford Rd Center Barnstead NH 03225 PS – helluva way ta git yer name in the paypa! try not drink none – drink sodee or milk – makes ya laff betta (smiley face) and feels reel goode! (smiley face)


(I think the letter speaks for itself, but just in case, here are a couple translations that may help clear up some confusion: “weird beech” = Weirs Beach, a popular spot on Lake Winnipesaukee where hundreds of thousands of bikers park during the Laconia bike week. “konkid” = Concord, the capital of NH.)

I couldn’t put a finger on how I felt after I’d read the letter, and now, 11 years later, I still can’t. I would like to meet Paula and Ximius and thank them in person for going out of their way to help a complete stranger. I want to tell them that in spite of my general disdain for humans, they represent a shining example of all that is good about people. It touches me that strangers showed concern for another, an unknown, and then took the time to hand write a letter, not knowing if the intended recipient was alive. I don’t know if anybody in New Hampshire reads this blog, but if you do, tell Paula and Ximius that I would like to meet them, or at least hear from them. I am forever indebted to them, and in particular, I want Paula to teach me to capture an accent in print as intimately and accurately as she does. Their thanks are long overdue. Thank you, strangers; thank you, friends.

12 August 2008

Jesus, I'm Thirsty!


Weddings, by and large, are happy affairs. Families are joined (so they say), and for the most part, ill feelings are put aside so that all guests can share a slice of the joy that is obviously being shared by the bride and groom. Weddings are so important that Jesus himself chose one to perform his first miracle (although it is mentioned only once in the entire New Testament, an odd thing considering it was the very first miracle, but a story for another time). And what did He do? Why, only the best miracle ever: At Cana, when a wedding party had emptied the keg, so to speak, He turned 6 thirty gallon jugs of water into the “best wine” of the night. I’ll tell you right now that if I saw somebody do that, you can be damn sure I’d follow them for the rest of my life. The point, of course, is that if alcohol at a wedding is good enough for Jesus, it’s good enough for me, and everybody knows that open bar weddings are the best. A case could be made, in fact, that to not emulate Jesus at a wedding is, well, a snub to the almighty. Say it ain’t so!

I went to a wedding this past weekend, and heard the phrase “in Jesus’ name” more often in six hours (over two days) than I’ve ever heard it in my entire life. At a rehearsal dinner the night before the wedding, I complimented the host on his collection of model cars. By way of making small talk after a mandatory prayer over catered Olive Garden, I said that it must have taken a great deal of patience to construct the hundreds of models he had on display throughout his home, and he responded by saying that he could not have done it without the blessing of Jesus, through whom all creativity and patience flows. Not five minutes later, one of my sisters complimented the man’s wife on her home, and, like a recording of her husband, she said that Jesus had seen fit to bless them with the house they own, and that they were very thankful. To hear them tell it, they had no talent or, for that matter, no control over anything that happened in their lives. Feeling rather out of place, I sat quietly, and realized that in the snatches of conversations I could vaguely overhear, all lips praised His name. I kept a careful yet discreet eye out for an aquarium filled with snakes; if I had seen one, I would have bolted. Jesus was manifest in all they did, and the only thing I could think of was “Invasion of the Body Snatchers”.

I was relieved when the wedding itself did not have any speaking in tongues, poisonous snakes or mason jars of cyanide. In fact, it was surprisingly short, with no kneeling or stinky incense. It was over in about 15 minutes, and before I knew it, I was standing outside in the Florida sun next to a cracker box church on a postage stamp parcel of land that had a huge “For Sale” sign in the driveway. Evidently, it is Jesus’ will that they move. In any case, we left the church and went to the reception which was being held in the clubhouse of a golf resort. Imagine my joy upon entering and seeing off in the corner the warm glint of sunlight reflecting off the smooth glass of liquor bottles, lined up neatly in a row and gently cooing my name. I sauntered right over (there was no line) and told the bartender I wanted a bloody mary that would blow my face off, and I’ll be damned if I wasn’t cut off before I started. It seems that the bar was closed at the request of the bride and groom. The people who claimed that Jesus ruled their lives had somehow seen fit to second guess Him and not allow alcohol at their wedding. Seemingly every aspect of their lives is ruled by scripture, yet Jesus’ first miracle is ignored, even hidden. Amazing.

Is this essay a knock on Jesus? No, it’s not. It is, however, a mild diatribe about those people who claim to know the will of God and have no problem foisting their beliefs on everyone they can. An argument could be made that the wedding day belonged to the bride and groom, and they should have the right to conduct their wedding as they see fit. Moreover, why would anyone attend a wedding if they knew it was going to be dry? Well, I didn’t know it was going to be dry. I didn’t know I’d have to sit so close to the bar I could smell it and not be able to taste it. And I am (obviously) flabbergasted at the audacity of people who pick and choose pet parts of the bible to follow while ignoring others, especially the born again New Testament evangelical crowd. Like I said earlier, if booze at a wedding is good enough for Jesus, it should be good enough for us mortals.

Do I have to have a drink to have fun? No. Do I have a drinking problem? No. As long as nobody tells me I can’t have it, I’m fine. I get to decide what I want to do, and as luck would have it, Jesus is on my side. So there.