William’s wife signed up to provide care services for Fred. He was a challenged man in his seventies. Age had shrunk his height by a few inches. He stood close to five-foot-seven. He was a compulsive eater.
The state of Massachusetts was a leader when it came to the care of the challenged. Fred had a low IQ and was now a ward of the state. He had only a few teeth and was mostly bald. Usually he was smiling.
Every day he poured birdseed into the feeder, but today he was cursing the squirrels. He was totally oblivious to what had happen, and now he was putting up a sign. Since he couldn’t write, he would scribble.
“Hi, Mr. Randal. Just feeding the birds. I’m mad today the squirrels are stealing their food. I am writing a sign on a sheet of copier paper. It says, ‘no squirrels allowed.’”
“Would you mind telling William that I would like to talk to him?”
I said with respect.
“I will. Something is wrong with my TV. I can’t turn it on, and the van never came today,” Fred said while he was in his own world.
I met William four years ago while trying to do a little exercise during the week. As I biked past his house, he said hello. His wife, Ruby, was a teacher nearby. Like Fred, Ruby also liked to eat beyond normal limits. My wife found her a little overpowering, very quick with opinions, and a little short on sensitivity.
William was the polar opposite. At six-foot-one, his body only carried 170 pounds. I never saw him drink alcohol or eat meat. He was a very picky eater. He explained that he played Ping-Pong at the community center two to three times a week. He offered to take me if I was interested. I told him that while I was in the army, I played Ping- Pong. We were often on call, confined to the base, so I’d spend all my free time in the day room. There were several paddles usually without rubber on them. We chipped in to buy white Ping-Pong balls. They were always on sale at the rec room. I learned to hit the ball hard and developed a good rhythm.
Being from the Midwest, Alice knew I was not a womanizer. She encouraged me to have outside activities. She was a homebody. Family, cooking, cleaning, and a few sitcoms made her content. For me, I had to get away a little. I did like to go to the casino. It was a break from reality. There were no clocks, no pretense. It was another dimension of therapeutic escape. It beats paying the high price for a therapist. Plus I can have all the free drinks I want. To be honest, I was basically a social drinker. Foxwoods is a classy place. The drinks were watered down. They did not want a bad reputation. If I took a trip to Atlantic City, it was a different story. Two or three drinks, and I need an aspirin.
As I got older, I had to be pragmatic about exercise. Golf ’s a lovely game. It is time-consuming, expensive, and not really me. Tennis is a great game. In the Boston area, you should start looking to play inside starting in late October. Another big activity is darts.
It is a real fad. The throw line is three to four inches shorter than it is in England. Many of the bars support local teams. It’s great for business. Lifting a Bud is the only exercise. The calories that one gobbles down will cause a floatation device around a midsection.
William was right. Your mind and body needed to be tuned. With great anticipation I went with him to a Ping-Pong game. He was gracious enough to lend me a paddle. The rubber was different on each side. One was a little softer than the other. He explained that one was for control and that the other was for speed. Control? What was he talking about? I just wanted to hit it and deliver a Roger Clemens fastball. As I entered the center, I was amazed by the exquisite community center. The playroom had a pool table, shuffleboard, and a Ping-Pong table. There were leather chairs and a leather sofa. This was a high-end center.
We rallied for a good twenty minutes. He played to my level. Soon five Chinese players entered the room. They came mostly on a senior bus. Some who lived nearby did bike. William was a giving person. He invited them for a game of doubles. Ping-Pong was usually a game of singles, and you played until you reached eleven. We were the geriatric group. Most were senior citizens. They played doubles. It was less taxing. We also played to twenty-one. Still it was like tennis. You had to win by two.
William and I rallied with two Chinese players. Their Ping-Pong paddles were different. They had a shorter handle. They gripped the racquet with four fingers spread out and their thumbs in.
I grabbed mine like I did with a tennis racquet. We were ready. The game was afoot. Shock and Awe, that is how my first game went. The two Chinese players not only placed the Ping-Pong ball well but it came with a lot of spin. I really felt like a fool. My turn to serve. I hit a fast one just over the net. It did not bother them. They returned it with either an undercut or overcut to William. He handled it well. The problem was me. I could not handle it.
When it came my turn to receive, it was soon apparent that I wasn’t as skilled. The Chinese players I met were older and slender. Most were short, although a few were more than six foot.
This was their pastime. There were tables in homes throughout China. They learned to play right after they learned to walk. The lady could not speak English. She served an undercut spin. I blocked the shot, and it went into the net. The last two were overcut, and I nearly returned the shot to the ceiling. The Chinese player laughed. At first I thought it was an insult. Later I found that it is custom to laugh off your mistakes. They did it to themselves. In an hour or two, one can get a lot of exercise. Afterward, I would sit and talk with William. He was extremely intellectual.
There was a good mix of American, Chinese, and a few Russian players. Most of us were older.
After several weeks I noticed a lot of the Chinese players (not all) would only play with or against me for a short while. My level of play was likely not enticing. William suggested I take a few lessons. I talked to Alice. She asked if I enjoyed the game and the people. I told her, “I really look forward to it. The social interaction and exercise suit me.”
She said, “Go for it.”
William and I went to a town near Boston. They rented out a gymnasium. The master who ran the show was a high-seated player.
There were six tables and buffers around all of them.
There were several Chinese players. It was different. They were mostly young and training for tournaments. There were also several white players. Most of them came from Cambridge.
God, what a culture shock. It was east meets west. The city of Boston is known for its liberal political leanings, but Cambridge went to the extreme. Folks from outside of the greater Boston area often joke that the Cambridge city limit signs should read: “Entering the People’s Republic of Cambridge.” The players from Cambridge were white and very serious players. Most looked like they were ready for a GI inspection. Their shorts, socks, sneakers, and racquets were all pristine.
I felt a little intimidated. William was there, and he brought Fred with him. Fred did like to go. He picked up the Ping-Pong balls and handed them to everyone. He really felt accepted. With reluctance, I signed up both for play and lessons. The master’s wife handled the sign-ups. She made me feel comfortable. “Don’t worry,” she exclaimed.
“I will pair you up with another beginner.”
Two hours went by. Then it was lesson time. I went to the table with the master. He spoke perfect English. He had a crate of four hundred Ping-Pong balls. We rallied for two minutes. He assessed my level immediately. In a diplomatic way, he commented that I had to relearn my technique.
I was told to go on the corner of the table and get in a crouching position. I had to make my hand and racquet function as one. He spat out Ping-Pong balls like a machine gun. As I returned one ball, another was already on its way. Backhand and then forehand. Over and over.
The last ten minutes he served with underspin and over spin shots. He instructed me to mimic the server. If it was an underspin, I was to follow through with an underspin return.
Eureka. It really worked. My level o
f play was climbing. I came back for several weeks.
At this point I could play even some of the Cambridge players. Most were nice. One, however, had an elitist attitude. He had a beard and an unruly hairdo. I heard that he was a software engineer. He was a wannabe, so I challenged him. God, his serve had more of a loop than a Bill Lee slow curve pitch. I was humbled by a game that ended eleven to two. I thanked him. He walked away without a thank-you or a gesture.
William witnessed the whole event. He challenged the bearded player. Like a pool shark, He rallied just enough to keep up with him. The bearded one wanted to move on and said, “Let’s play.” William showed his pearly whites. His intensity and agility were high. He never allowed the bearded man to even score a point. He was humiliated.
This Sunday I felt would be my last lesson. I was becoming more accepted. A middle-aged Chinese man with two little boys came to me. He asked if I would like a game. Of course, I said yes. If my ego got any bigger, it would have consumed the whole building. “Great,” he said. “My son wants to play a game.” I looked down at the little tykes. Gad, maybe they need a milk crate to stand on, I thought. Their heads barely made it to the top of the table. I hesitated. Then I thought, I cannot humiliate him as I was humiliated. I accepted.
We rallied for a few minutes. That little tyke could play. I thought I would go easy on him. The first two points went to me. Then it was his turn to serve. He went to the corner of the table. He measured his distance so that it would be a legal serve. He held his racquet to the side. What is he doing? I asked myself. When he served, the spin on the ball took it to the side of the table. I did not even get my racquet on it. How much more humble pie could one eat? The score was ten to nine. One more point, and the little one was sending me to a therapist. He looked at his dad.
The dad gave him a signal with his hands. The little one acknowledged him.
The next three points went to me. I knew it was not me. The father was giving a lesson both to his son and one to me.
I went to him with my hands clasped and said, “Thank you for the game and your lesson.” He smiled at me and put his hand on his son. He spoke to his son in Chinese, and the son answered in Chinese. I guessed he was saying, “Dad, you should have let me wipe that white dude out.” I smiled and left the building.
Practice, more humiliation, and more practice have improved my game greatly. Now when I play at the community center, William observes something different. The people may be the same, but as Ed Sullivan said, “Showtime.” My level of play now almost matches the Chinese players. To beat me, they have to play at their best. I had gained their respect. These were great memories of the past. Now the lights were out at the community center.
As I was speaking to Fred at William’s house, I saw him come out the door. He opened the gate and invited me in. I walked with the bike to his porch. William was a good listener.
William had suffered two traumatic events in his life. The first happened when he was young. The other happened at his workplace in Boston. He had a high-level job with a major insurance company. In the end, the company did a personnel change, and William lost his job. It totally affected him. The unjust way they treated him did finally result in a large six-figure settlement. Money was never an issue with him. It was his fragile emotions that were severely damaged. He never spoke to me about his early childhood, and I never asked. Nor did I want to know. He did lend me a book he liked—Dr. Michael Newton’s Journey of Souls. After I read it, I was even more impressed by William. The next time I met him I turned in his direction and said: “William, you’re alright in my book. Someday I hope to be of kindred spirit.”
I confided in him about the situation that happened between Alice and me. I said to him, “If I do not leave with her and Randy in two days, our marriage is over.” William showed no emotion. After three to four minutes of silence, he muttered one word, “Collaborative.”
I said, “What?”
William stated again, “A collaborative. You have water, bread, a Buick, and the survival radio. I have cases of peanut butter. Mr.
Henderson is a contractor. He could dig a well for water. The Leonards’ have a gas generator. You can use it at each house to run everyone’s refrigerator. This way it keeps everyone food without spoiling. The Arnolds have always grown and used their own veggies.”
I reiterated, “A collaborative. Hmm, William I am going to see Officer Ryan.”
“Officer Ryan? He is two miles away. What does he bring to the mix?” asked William “You remember the New Jersey mobster actor who died in Italy of a heart attack?”
“Yes, Ben, I remembered him,” William answered with curiosity. “Well, the mob boss always goes to one who is paying for protection,”
I said as a light went off in my head. Remember what the mob boss would say?
“Heh piss on you. Do right and no one bothers you. Then you don’t need my protection.” “We should do it right and invite Officer Ryan in I said turning to William. Please tell the neighbors there is a meeting at my house in two hours.” I went home, got the bicycle, and explained my little game plan to Jessica. I told her to bring some spring water, two loaves of bread, and my one bottle of whiskey.
“Dad, are you inviting the man next door. He is a drunk,” she stated in a sarcastic tone.
“Yes, him too, Jessica. If we don’t, there will be hell to pay. I will be back,” I said as I got on the bike and rode off to Officer Ryan’s house. As I was peddling, I got a little nervous. I had never spoken to him. Two miles was easy on a bike.
“Officer Ryan, may I have just five minutes of your time?” I asked with confidence.
“We are all trying to survive this horrible event. My neighbors and I are forming a collaborative for our survival. I think we can help each other,” I explained slowly.
“I am not sure.” His arms were folded as a defensive gesture.
I continued,” It would be for your benefit too. Wear at least part of your uniform and wear your gun. Each of us has something to contribute. Together we can survive. If we go it alone, it will be to our demise.” I was finished. Saying anything else would be an effort in diminishing returns. I just got on my bike and left. After a short two- mile bike ride, I was home. My next-door neighbor, the drunk, was in my yard.
“How are you doing?” the old drunk said. He was thin, and his face showed the poison that heavy alcoholics drank. It was morning, so he was sober. He had lost his wife to cancer. His one daughter never talked to him. At least he was quite wealthy. “Your daughter talked to me,” he continued. “I don’t remember ever talking to her. She is a sweet little thing,” he said with surprised. “I guess we are having a neighborhood meeting, and I am invited!” Then he wiped his nose. “No one ever cares about me. My large inheritance can’t bring her back. This electricity thing does not bother me as much as the rest of you,” he said with a whimper. “I am not hurting anyone with my drinking. I am waiting for the Lord to take me so I can join my wife,” he exclaimed as he wiped a tear from his eyes.
Damn, I thought. I never knew this about him. “Do you still have that old watch? The one that John Cameron Swazi said, ‘It just keeps on ticking.’”
“Of course I do.” Then he showed to me. “This is a classic. It winds up with your hand. My wife and I saw the ad on TV. We watched I Love Lucy, and the Ed Sullivan Show. We would cuddle on the sofa. I always looked at the watch to see what time it was.”
“Couldn’t miss Ed or Lucy,” he said with a smile.
“Please follow me,” I asked kindly. I put and iron pipe in the ground.
I then drew a circle around it. Next I put twelve rocks in equal distance.
I then replaced two with larger rocks. I made sure they were opposite each other. I turned to our drunk and asked, “What time is it?”
“It’s 10:35, time for my first drink,” he replied as he looked at his watch.
I set the stones so that we had a sundial. The shadow now indicated the time.
“You really should eat a little before drinking,” I said with a helpful voice.
“The elderly council says the same thing to me,” he espoused. “They bring food over, but it spoiled in the fridge. Now they keep bringing canned food over. I have cases of food in the spare bedroom,” he said like it was a problem to him.
“We are having a collaborative meeting here in one hour,” I commented. “If you can hold off drinking until then, it would be an honor to have you attend.” I was trying not to insult him. My mind clicked fast. “In little more than an hour, we all can take one little sip of whiskey.” He looked at his watch again.
“We have a deal, I can wait another hour before I drink,” the drunk replied.
Jessica came out as I had asked her. She bought the bread, water, and whiskey. I told Alice I was having the neighbors over for a meeting. She was not impressed. Most came within an hour. With no radio, TV, or electronic devices, entertainment was hard to come by. William brought the peanut butter. I had to adapt. Too many to bring inside, I thought. The cold war between Alice and I was still ongoing.
We scrounged up chairs, milk cartons, logs, coolers, tool chests, whatever it took to find seating. Almost everyone came. I first gave out water and a little food. I even insisted that the drunk have a peanut butter sandwich. He ate. I knew that when a despot feeds his followers, it becomes easier to lead them. I am not a natural leader, but instinct told me that I needed to gain their trust and respect. I bought a bunch of branches and left them at my feet. First I gave everyone a sip of whiskey. Only Jessica and, of course, William did not partake. The sundial indicated it was not even twelve noon. Randy looked. He shook his head, thinking, Dad is drinking. Why not head to Canada with Mom now?
I stood up. “Look, everyone, I am not much of a leader or speaker.” I took a twig and broke it. But then I took a whole bunch and tried to break them. I showed everyone that I could not break them. “Maybe to most of you this is lame,” I continued. “Truth is that we are in a bad situation. By ourselves we are doomed. Yesterday I went on a trip to get spring water. To defend my daughter and her friend, I had to shoot at two people. I took the life of a young woman. It really is out of my character. The rest of us may encounter the same crisis. Either we will hurt someone or be hurt.”
Boston Darkens Page 5