I was reminded of my old friend Hank.
He and I used to walk from 7th Avenue to 5th after lunchtime.
Man, I used to love these walks.
How I met Hank is not important nor is this something that belongs in an open discussion. But at the same time, Hank and I shared a few ideas. We used to talk about life and go back and forth about our problems.
Hank was much older than me. I recall him as a gentle man. However, the matching tattoos on the tops of his hands with a little devil and the words, “the hell you say,” written beneath the devils were enough to show that Hank was not always so kind or gentle.
He never spoke much about his tattoos or the meaning behind them. But this is how it goes with most people who served in the armed forces. Or in Hank’s case, most of the marines that I knew who served in Vietnam would never speak about what they saw or what happened to them. Hank was not much different in this regard.
Hank used to want to paint the side of barns.
He told me about this. Hank mentioned that this was his idea of an escape. He said when the world was too much or when he was at his breaking point, Hank would tell me, “I just wanted to move away and paint the side of the old barns.”
Hank explained this to me on several different occasions. He would tell me about the old barns he noticed on the side of long and empty roads in upstate New York, where the world took on a more rural appeal and people were friendly.
Towns were smaller, and even strangers were treated with a welcoming smile, and warmth.
We both liked this idea.
We talked about being at places that were away from the city or out of the concrete jungles, to go and visit places where people are greeted with a friendly, “hello.” This is done with no reason or no other agenda except, of course, to be hospitable or kind.
I was always more of a city kid. I never took much to the quietness of upstate places when I was younger. Then again, I was itching to feel the experience of something wild at the time.
However, I did serve some time on a work farm. I slept in a bunk house and lived across from a barn where they had cows and pigs and sheep. I worked in barn crews and cleaned pig pens. Yes, I fell in pig shit and cow shit, face first, more than once.
I laugh as I think about this because at no point did I ever believe that I would look back and regard these moments with warmth.
I also laugh because this is part of my story, which is something I share in my college lectures, to which I add, “I’m not sure if anyone’s noticed, but mine is not an upstate or farming accent.”
This gets a lot of laughs . . .
I had no idea what farm life was like. I certainly never thought that a pig could be as big as a Buick or that cows could kick as fast as they did.
It was dirty, but fulfilling work. Seeing life come to life and animals come to pass.
I saw the cycle of life from a different perspective. And yes, this was beautiful.
At the same time, I laugh because I remember how awful this was for me in the beginning.
I never thought much about sheep or knew what goes in to caring for animals. At best, I had a few dogs when I was a kid. I had a hamster and a gerbil. They died . . .
I had a bird too. But those were pets. These were farm animals.
But again, I digress.
I was thinking about Hank and his barn fantasy.
Hank would tell me about his idea of moving away from everyone, and how he was always thinking about taking his life on the road, finding some old dilapidated barn, and then he would repair it, and paint the sides.
This was his escape. Or perhaps. this was his Valhalla, or Heaven, or in fairness, perhaps this was his version of a self-induced afterlife.
I remember when Hank found himself in a bad way. He was sad and depressed. He was about to lose his business. He was about to lose everything. He had been drinking too.
I could smell it on him.
“I just want to go paint barns,” he told me.
I understood this.
Or maybe I understand what this means to me.
Yes, I get it.
I don’t want to paint barns, per se. At the same time, I do have this idea of getting on a train and riding from this side of the country and head out all the way to California.
My fantasies about this trip can change or vary and so do their sadness or intensity. However, there are times when life gets to be too much. In Hank’s case, he would tell me, “I just want to go paint barns.”
I would tell him, “I just want to get on the train.”
Hank would tell me, “I get it.”
I suppose we need that—someone who gets it or someone who understands without needing an explanation.
Saying that I want to get on the train means more than I can always explain; however, it was nice to have someone understand and not judge or have some little helpful answer or some positive affirmation or a cliche that did nothing else but add insult to injury.
Hank would just tell me, “I get it.”
Sometimes, hearing someone say, “I get it,” is good enough.
I am not perfect when it comes to the world of verbal communication. I am shortsighted. I can be selfish. I can be arrogant and frustrated, rude, and sure, the list can go on.
I’m more than sure there are several people from my past who can attest to this. Then again, this is also a case of the pot calling the kettle black. And who am I?
Am I the pot?
The kettle?
Does it really matter if we are all imperfect?
I’m sure that I am not the only person in this world who lives with certain defects of character nor am I the only one who lives with shortcomings.
We all have our own things.
We see things the way we do, and sometimes, if we are lucky, we have people in our life who know enough to say, “I get it.”
If we are really lucky, the arguing or the bickering?
Well, this isn’t even a “thing” because love outweighs shortcomings. At least, this is the case when life is true.
I’m not an easy man. Then again, I never claimed to be.
I am as far from perfect as the next person. However, and at the same time, I do understand the need to want to step away from all of the crazy bullshit.
And that’s what I’m doing.
I’m here to step away because I’ve fought for too long and loved for too little.
I’d like to change that.
I’m sure that I’m not the only person who wants to escape. Then again, I can assure you that since my intentions and the meaning behind my train ride have changed, I am no longer looking for a long-term solution that will hastily fix a short-term or temporary problem.
I don’t want to slip away permanently. Not by any means. But sometimes, life moves in such a way. Sometimes, life is unfair.
Sometimes, life’s a bitch and so are the people around us.
Or, at best, sometimes, life might seem like a constant dilemma and pain and heartache are all too real—but this is when I have to learn to stop the car, so-to-speak.
I have to give myself a minute to breathe — then I can take a step back, or give time a few minutes to give me space. Perhaps I can find a way to let the dilemmas turn into something else.
“Just give it a minute.”
“Don’t lose it, kid.”
“Keep your head, son.”
Hank used to say this.
“I just want to go and paint barns,” is something else that Hank would tell me.
“I just want to get on the train,” is what I would tell Hank.
“Maybe tomorrow,” Hank would tell me.
“But not today. We have grown folks’ business to take care of.”
I don’t need the train right now. But I do get it.
Whether it’s painting barns, building something from wood, or in my case, writing my words down to keep me from the fray or the birth of insanity, I understand the need for an escape.
I really miss my friend Hank.
He knew I was crazy.
He was my very good friend.
So to him I say:
Sleep well, my old friend.
It has been decades but the talks we shared and the ideas of painting the side of barns or telling you about my train ride were lifesaving to me.
By the way, say hello to Father Mike for me, If you get the chance, that is.
He was always very good to us . . .
31st Street just isn’t the same anymore.
Then again, I think you knew that before you left.
Either way, I’m sure the barns are beautiful where you are now and, in my head, I can see you smiling while running the brush from side to side.
Paint ’em red, Hank, and wherever you are, please keep me in your prayers.
Your younger old friend,
B—
The Written Addiction 