I walked along the hospital hallway until I came to a wooden door marked 123. I was looking for an empty room to sit and read, it wasn’t far from where Tommy’s mother was being held, so I walked in. I didn’t look at the two beds as I walked into the musty smelling room. I went to a rocking chair in the far corner of the room near the wide window overlooking the parking lot. I sat in it and began to read. I was really getting into The Waltz, when someone coughed in front of me. I jumped, my cane and all four books landed with a clatter on the floor. I hurried to gather them up and leave, but a boy about 17 stopped me.

“What are you scared for?” He asked. I was still gathering up my books and cane and managed to slow my heartbeat down some. I sat back down in the rocking chair and looked at the voice that spoke to me. He was tall, even sitting he was at least 7 inches taller than I was. His eyes were brown, and he was bald. He was extremely skinny, and his bottom lip stuck out a little. His skin was coal black with huge hands and unnaturally long arms. Without even bending over, he just reached down and handed me my cane. I was apprehensive about taking things from him because I am not sure if what he has is catching. He appeared to be staring at my chest so I removed one of the four books that rest there and show it to him. Without even looking at the title he said, “The Waltz. By D Parker. I like it. Lots of metaphors are portrayed within the story.” He continued. I felt like I had met my twin. I can’t help but like him instantly. Continue Reading

I’ll probably never see my best friend again.

We met as third-graders at a church youth group. I hated him at first because he was taller than me, which meant he stood first in line for our Awana team. But it was music nerd love at first sight when he pulled a Run-DMC tape out of his pocket.

We were inseparable for about 15 years. He passed me my first joint. We slept in basements, on couches and in cars together. The night he cried because I was killing myself with drugs and alcohol was the night I decided to get clean. We lived together for so long without ever having girlfriends that my mother was convinced we were a gay couple.

I was the best man at his wedding. I there when his son was born. He stayed at my house the night his marriage fell apart. He sent me the only letters I got while in treatment. He always had an open door for me, no matter what mess I got myself into. He provided me with the stable living environment that I needed to finally get my shit together. Continue Reading

Growing up as a loner, with acute social anxiety and the inability to even carry on a decent conversation with someone without becoming tongue-tied and nervous, I wondered if it was possible to have a real friendship—the kind that I spent hours reading about and wishing I had, but at the same time wondered if it truly existed; a friendship in which I felt understood and accepted, even if I didn’t know what to say or how to act; a friendship with similar interests and pursuits; a friendship where I could just be “me”.

I was 14 when I volunteered at a youth training center in southern California, where I met other young people whose goal was to dedicate their time toward helping others. There I met Stephanie, who had been working there as a volunteer for nearly a year.

It had always been difficult for me to make new friends, and I often simply stayed at the edge of any circle or clique, never quite entering in for fear of rejection or misunderstanding. By the end of the first day I met Steph, however, she had already confided in me things she had never told anyone, and I felt at ease with her, amazingly without any trace of anxiety. We begun to stick together like the proverbial glue, or as Forrest Gump so aptly put it, “like peas and carrots”. Continue Reading

I remember her visits to my grandparents’ ranch.  She came to shoot the life out of a wild animal, skin it, gut it, take it home and eat it.  She was tall, every bit as tall as my dad, who seemed like the biggest man on earth.  She must have been well over six feet.  Her hair was boy-short and silver.  I remember her lack of femininity and her Cary Grant swagger, a slight hunch in her back.  I blamed that distinct stride on her never-ending legs.  She wore a single gold ring on the ring finger of her right hand, large square rimmed glasses, and no other accessories.  She wore blue jeans, probably men’s because of her build, and old plaid shirts that buttoned down the front.  I remember my family’s speculation about her sexual orientation, after all, she never had a man with her nor was there ever mention of one, and she always seemed a little tough for a woman.  It didn’t matter.  She was strong.  She rode horses and got dirt in her fingernails.  She hunted and wrestled calves at branding.  I remember her voice — it was reminiscent of Jimmy Stewart’s slow-paced diction and she said her “s” as “sh”.  Looking back, I realize that I knew very little about her, except for the fact that she filled with fascination some of my earliest memories.  To my young and adoring eyes, she was magnificent, a skyscraper of strength and independence, and completely different from any woman I had known. Continue Reading

Play nicely.  Share your toys.  Include others.

These are the mantras of childhood . . . and for good reason.  With constant repetition, our parents, kindergarten teachers, and nosey neighbor-ladies have trained us to be open-hearted adults, communing peacefully with others and holding our arms open to new friendships.  But are we sometimes too open . . . too willing to give our time and attention to those who carry negative energy just for the sake of maintaining that sharing attitude? Continue Reading