I have been fortunate to know good people. Or equally, I have been more fortunate to know people, who might seem to have a rough edge around them or people who may appear to be tough, or hard, yet, I have been fortunate enough to see their truth.
I can say that I have been lucky enough to see a bit more deeply into their lives, to which, I am fortunate and dare I say this; I am blessed and better because I have met these people.
I am aware now. Or perhaps now that I am older or more seasoned, I am more aware than ever before because I know there are people who enter our life for reasons. Sometimes, this is long-term. Sometimes, this is only momentary and sometimes this is something that comes with a consequence which is unbeknownst to us. However, in the end, it is clear that everyone in our life or in our path has been put there for a reason.
I understand that we are all a series of lessons and experiences. We are a plethora of opportunities. While I understand that not all people are good or everlasting in our daily life, I understand that to each is their own lesson and for this I am grateful for all that I have learned and all who I have met.
I want to share this with you here, with hopes that this can offer you a laugh or a smile, and perhaps this can open a doorway to your own thoughts. If possible, I would like this to be a gateway to a sentiment or a series of emotions which allow you to feel, love or remember something or someone who has made an impact in your life.
Now, I have mentioned that I am someone who has lived different lives. I say this because this is true.
I say this because I have worked in the white-collar sector as well as with the blue collar.
I have learned that our differences or the differences between the two collars are only situational. However, at our core, life is still life and stress is still stress.
Therefore, beyond the realm of work life is our home life and deeper than our basic world, or deeper than the surface level, we all have a truth and we all have a heart.
At least, most people do. I have learned that not everyone has the heart which I assumed, and I have learned that even loving people can turn heartless.
The truth is we all have our own special brand of seasoning which is what gives our life a special flavor and makes us applicable and suitable for certain people. Sometimes, the flavor is unending. And sometimes, the flavors become sour and hence, we are no longer compatible.
But life moves and if we are smart, we can learn from where we’ve been. We can learn from our mistakes. More importantly, we can learn to celebrate more of who we love because in retrospect, we understand more about the value of having good people in our life.
I would like to go back to a construction site, years ago, perhaps more than 25 years to be exact. I remember there was the laborer who ran the job site.
He was the one who cleaned up after all the trade workers. He kept in communication with the main office of the building, which is where this scene takes place.
He kept the jobsite neat and like many others who grew up in the construction business, this man had hard hands. He lived a hard life. He worked hard and lived hard.
He brought his lunch from home and ate reheated food to save money so that his grandkids could have a good life.
He was not young. but he was saucy.
There was no in-between with him. He either liked you or he didn’t.
However, there were times when I worked late, or I was on an overtime shift and we talked like two men. I was the younger one and he was the older.
He talked about his life and background. He talked about his years in the business, and we laughed about the stories of our regrettable youth.
There was an electrician who worked on the site. And he will be mentioned more in a minute.
However, the site was busy. The job was a multi-million-dollar contract, which meant that all hands were on deck. There were electricians and carpenters and plumbers and fire protection, or sprinkler teams and tin-knockers who worked on the ductwork for the air-conditioning.
Of course, there were the conflicts and troubles and normal everyday dysfunctions which come with life and work and everyday business.
However, there was this one electrician who seemed to enjoy being a problem. He liked to poke at people as if sarcasm was his first language—and no, nobody liked him.
The electrician was a practical joker. Only, none of his jokes were funny to anyone else.
However, and due to his family connections and an uncle who was influential with the union, the young electrician walked around as if he was untouchable.
Only, he wasn’t untouchable.
At least, not on this day.
There was an afternoon when the entire space needed to be cleaned and readied for the carpeting which was to take place after regular working hours.
However, just after the entire floor was swept and cleaned, the young electrician was standing on a ladder and unfortunately for him, he spilled a box of small electrical parts.
The parts fell to the ground and rolled all across the freshly swept floor.
The laborer was obviously much older and very tired, yet there was still a glimmer of him who could drop the mask at any given moment. He rolled his eyes as if to say, okay kid. That was the last straw.
The young electrician laughed about the mess and told the laborer that he would have to sweep this up too.
The electrician was standing on the bottom run of the ladder which was next to the wall.
The laborer had enough.
This was clear to everyone else, including myself.
The laborer had enough of the wise-ass comments. He had enough of the young man’s sarcasm and practical jokes. To put this as plainly as ever, the laborer had enough of the electrician.
Plain and simple.
With the broom in his right hand, the laborer walked across the floor and approached the young man. He leaned the broom against the wall. The electrician looked curiously with a smile, as if to be secured with a false sense of bravery.
Then swiftly as ever, and quickly too, as if to prove that while he might older, the laborer was not so old that the old man couldn’t move fast anymore.
He reached and grabbed the young electrician by the throat. The laborer pulled him from the ladder and then lifted and swung him around. He quickly pushed the young man’s back up to the wall.
I can still see the look on the electrician’s face. Surprised and scared as if the dog he picked on was free from the leash and now — it was the dog’s turn to have his say.
The laborer squeezed the young man’s neck as if it were squeezed to the thickness of a pencil. Keep in mind, the laborer was not an overly big man. He was average sized at best. He wasn’t so big; however, in the case of laborer against electrician—the laborer was simply “just” big enough.
Choking the young man as he squirmed against the wall with fear, the laborer held up three fingers with his left hand and while gripping the young man’s neck with his right—the laborer explained, “in my life, I have three takes.”
He said, “I take my time,” and then he dropped one of his three fingers down to two.
He said, “I take my breaks,” and then dropped another finger. And with one finger remaining, the laborer explained as calmly and sternly as he could when he said, “and I take no shit! So, clean it up your fucking self.”
I remember this very well because this is one of my funniest memories from the times in my early years as a blue-collar worker.
I have learned from this and I have learned what happens when people live with a sarcastic tongue. However, I have also met people who act on the side of righteousness—or people who are an army of one or an anti-bully brigade, like my friend, the laborer.
He used to tell me, “never take shit from people. It becomes a really bad habit.”
He used to tell me to speak up for myself.
And I did, only my words never seemed to come out right and in the end, I used to think that I was the one who was wrong, even if I was right.
I have to say this: We need people like this who teach us how to live, and how to work and how to be. I needed this to learn when to be gentle and when to lean in or when to let my guard down, and when to take no shit.
I know that this man has gone since then. However, it is stories like this that keep him alive and yes, this is how I keep an old friend of mine in my heart.
I agree that there is a way to keep good things alive. I also agree that although life changes, or that people move on, or pass, or split apart, or we find ourselves in different places; I agree in the perfect afterlife of a good memory.
I was thinking about how long it’s been since I have been to the cemetery. It must have been the last funeral because otherwise, I never go to visit the graves of those who I miss and love.
No . . .
I go to places which keep them alive—like the ocean. If needed, sometimes, I drive past a house, which is located at 277 Merrick Avenue, which is where I grew up. It’s not much. The house, I mean.
It’s a humble place but this is where I began my life.
I drove past a few days ago—just to see my old house. And I told my old house, as if to speak to the entity of my past and my loved ones, and as if to speak to the the heart of me who understands the sadness of pain and loss.
I told them all not to worry. I’m doing okay.
Things are not always the way we planned, and life doesn’t always turn out the way we want. But there is the spirit of our past and the surviving warmth from our loved ones, or friends, and the family who influence our lives enough to bring on a sense of cheer to the heart.
I believe in this . . .
Therefore, I have to close with this . . .
Hey, Pop.
I don’t go to see your headstone anymore because it hurts me too much. I know that I have said this before—but I don’t go to cemeteries (unless I have to) because this is where dead people live.
Instead, I go to places where your spirit lives. That’s why I drive by the old house or why I go to the beach—especially the beach at Point Lookout because, to me, that’s where you live. This is where our memories take form or take shape and come back to life.
I know that I have said this before, but now is a good time to say this again.
Einstein said that energy can neither be created nor destroyed. And life is energy. So are my memories which is why I keep them alive. To me, this is how I keep you and Mom alive.
I don’t always know how to listen or how to communicate with you or your energy—but I do know that somehow, you and Mom are out there.
If you can, or if it’s not too much to ask, the hour is early and the day ahead is full. I have much to do and much to think about.
And I’m scared, Pop.
I really am.
So, if you can, it would mean a lot to me if you could send a sign. Just let me know that I’m not alone.
Just let me know that you’re watching me from somewhere—or that I’m not so bad, or that you’re proud of me.
Let me know that the bullies in the world should be more afraid of your spirit than I should be afraid of them. Help me, Pop.
I need you.
Let me know because like I said, the hour is early. The day ahead of me is full, and while I am still a grown man—sometimes, I think I’m just a boy who needs his Old Man.
Sleep well, Pop.
And tell Mom not to worry. I’m sure things will work out in the end.
They always do . . .at least that’s what you used to tell me.
Right?
Love always,
Your son
B—
The Written Addiction 