HUBRIS

I've long had the desire to pass on what limited wisdom I have to share. With babies on the back burner until I’m confident that I can both financially and psychologically handle one, I seek to espouse my vast life experience to anyone who’ll listen.

When I stand before a class of freshmen, all wide eyed and bushy tailed, and weave my tale of woe, it’s fascinating to watch. They look me over and ready themselves for another long winded talk about the dangers of whatever. They’ve heard it all before, seen movies, read books. About halfway through they perk up. I grab their attention and they’re glued to the end. I'm always sorry I don’t leave more time for questions.

The questions vary widely, from general inquiries about my age to ignorant questions about what kind of gun I used or if I ‘took care’ of the woman that ratted me out.  I know my message has fallen on deaf ears when a kid asks something like that.  Out of the whole crowd I'll entertain many, interest a few, and truly reach one. The one emails me or gets in touch through the blog to say I inspired them to seek help. It fuels my desire to publish my memoir and go global, or at least to Rhode Island.

But nothing is as humbling as a loved one you just can’t reach. When I finally got sober I entertained visions of converting my brother. I invited him to hear me speak at a meeting in the hopes he’d see where he was headed.

“Wow, you were bad.” He’d say.

“No worse than you.” I’d reply.

“I never stole from Dad.”

I left it alone. I stole to push Dad away, while he remained subserviant. What he couldn’t see was that we were serving the same master--self medicating to cope with the pain.

In the end we parted ways, seven years and counting since we’ve spoken.

So I adopted a surrogate brother, one who listened intently to the advice I doled out. He did more for me than I for him. He gave me faith that although change is optional--it’s not impossible.

But he stumbled along the way, got tripped up by transference. I recognized it for what it was but couldn’t get him to see the forest through the trees. I never imagined the cold, hard, whip of his anger would be turned on us. He left without saying a word.

But that is the punishment for my hubris. Another brother sacrificed on Anger’s Altar.

Foot in Mouth and Head Up Ass

I have no affinity for meatheads. Those Archie Bunker described as, "Dead from the neck up." Managing Gold’s Gym in Saugus, I dealt with them everyday, asking them not to drop the dumbbells and placing heavy sanctions on grunting. Monopolizing weights in an unconventional manner, one of the strict rules, took finesse to enforce. At first I approached them with the chip on my shoulder fully exposed. My brother was a meathead, brawn fueled by searing anger. Meatheads are generally irrational, demand respect they don't give, and interpret reprimands as invitations to a fight. One guy called me a faggot after I asked him for the fourth time to stop slamming the 100lb dumbbells on our brand new rubber floors.

I tried to discard the chip and approach them without anger, which only begets more anger. I was nice, made sure no one else was around when I talked to them, and gave more chances than was warranted. I realized my prejudice against men acting like inflated boys stemmed from the fact that I suffered from the same malady.

On Tuesday I left work and traveled to Planet Fitness to work out. I became a member because my neighbors wanted a trainer and joining was easier than paying their daily workout fee. Planet Fitness is a bare bones club. No dumbbells over 60 lbs. No group exercise classes. Barely any trainers and the ones they do have make $10 an hour. They are so strict that they have what's called a Lunk Alarm, a siren that sounds whenever someone disobeys the golden rule: Don't act like a meathead.

I was in a dogshit mood. When I sat up after a set of bench presses with the fifties and placed them on the ground, they made a thud. The Lunk Alarm reverberated through the building. Someone behind the desk beckoned a floor trainer to inform me that dropping weights is not allowed. I was shocked, but acquiesced, nodding in acknowledgment before walking away in disgust.

I noticed the other trainers congregating, whispering about the bad attitude on the floor and what to do about it. I kept my head down, turn up my ipod, and reminded myself that thuds are open to interpretation. I did another set of presses, over exaggerating the softness with which I put them down. Then I went to the seated row where I felt someone's presence over my shoulder, "Excuse me." he said.

"Yeah." I responded.

"Take your headphones off, please." he ordered. I took one off. "We're not set up for circuit training. I need you to go and clean up those dumbbells."

I considered the list of possible responses flying at me from all directions, most notably, Don’t worry pal, someday you'll make more than ten dollars an hour, but I abstained and said, "OK."

Before I could do my set, he interrupted again and barked, "I need you to do it now."

I paused. My temples flared. I bit down hard. "Right away." I answered, and did what he asked.

For the rest of the workout he hawked me from the desk, waiting for me to defy another unspoken gym etiquette rule. I behaved, frothing at the mouth.

Before I left I approached the desk and said, "Sorry about all that," and walked away, realizing that the universe gave me a glimpse of just how raw my anger still is, and how when it clashes with someone else's it's a recipe for disaster.

I guess two raws don't make a right.

The Kraken

I should've known he was a demigod. At sixteen, he drove my mother's Chevy Citation into a brick wall with such force; the engine block breached the dash and his chest cracked the steering wheel. He tried to hurl the case of beer he'd been swilling over a fence, but the ensuing rain saturated the cardboard and gave out mid swing. The cops burst onto the scene as Budweiser's rolled down the hill.

The Kraken, as he'll be called for the duration of this post, was sent from the depths to wreak havoc on commuters. His roar sounded like: "All this drunk driving is bullshit. What they should do is test you after one beer. If you can drive fine, then they should put a one on your license, two beers, then you get a two, and so on. I drive better drunk," meaning any spark of fear was extinguished with a dose of alcohol. Predicting incidents was as easy as predicting the sun's presence in the morning sky. It started when he stole a car from a neighbor, twice, and was caught doing donuts in a field.

Whenever an innocent driver needed to be harassed, or a brazen driver silenced, The Kraken was released to stalk the streets and highways. Three hours late picking me up from work one night, he followed a woman home that cut him off. He had no designs on her; it was her husband he sought. The poor woman drove around her apartment building with The Kraken in tow, screaming for her husband to intervene. When the husband came, he was swallowed whole.

Someone beeped at him after he cut them off. To scare us, they chased us, swerving as if to side-swipe our car. The Kraken called their bluff with a whip of the wheel and slammed into their port side. The tables turned and we chased them. But their vessel was faster and they escaped with only dented side panels.

During a simple trip to the store, we happened upon some innocents, angered by a flat tire on the side of the road. Their profanity in a school zone was too much for The Kraken, he swerved toward them to provoke the response that justified the beating they took. The Kraken's girlfriend shouted at me, "Go out there and help him!" I responded, "Help him do what," knowing the incident was over; The Kraken was already in the car, driving away.

While doing 50 in a 30, The Kraken gunned it when a police cruiser flashed his lights in pursuit. We would have made it if The Kraken's blind rage allowed him to think more than one move ahead. Turning right would have concealed us. We turned left. The cop arrested me for hindering his investigation after I lied when asked if The Kraken was trying to outrun the police.

After six DWI's and the threat of mandatory jail, The Kraken swam to Florida in a used, metallic maroon, Trans Am. During traffic stops, he adopted an alias, giving authorities my name and social security number. I'd routinely travel to his lair to turn myself in for warrants issued in my name. They'd drop the charges when the officer that wrote the citation failed to pick me out in a photo line up.

I recently found out that after decades of revocation, The Kraken got his license back. I will breathe a sigh of relief on the T tomorrow but will pray for safe passage over the Charles.



  

Ass Mode

Do you know someone? Sure you do, you're a superstar. But how many people do you really know? I'm talking about intimacy, tried and true. It's knowing when a person is about to burst with anxiety, and being the only one able to bring them back from the brink. Rachel does that for me. Friday, after a particularly long week, I came home to pizza, Kombucha, and two cupcakes from Whole Foods...all my favorites. She encouraged copious amounts of TV, and left me in peace as I saturated my brain with sugar, salt, fat, and mindless television. If that isn't love...

As cliché as it sounds, its a two way street. I am an expert at detecting the slightest hint of anxiety in Rachel's voice. With a mind running on warp speed, she can sometimes be forgetful, losing things like her keys. There are sign posts that she's going to the 'Bad place' and I step in as soon as I hear her starting to retrace her steps out loud. I find whatever she's looking for, usually somewhere obvious, and avert a crisis that would inevitably spill onto me eventually, (Like the time she chastised me when two horseflies stalked us all the way up a mountain and she screamed, "Bryan! Fix it!!!")

There's my brother-in-law, The Reverend Austin. Not always the most astute, he at least knows when to back off when I'm in Ass Mode. And I delight in his allowing my intrusions into his life since it reminds me that if I were able, I'd make a damn good therapist.

These are the people that stay with me in the face of my biting anger, when I feel capable of twisting both of their heads off because they take forty five minutes to pick out a pair of shoes. So who knows you?