I’m sitting here chewing a homemade chocolate chip cookie. Now, I love oatmeal. I do. I know there are those who prefer Malt-O-Meal. And I can’t say that I blame them. I spent many a wintry morning waiting with my brother Michael for the school bus at the end of a long, frozen-mudded farm driveway with woolen mittens on our hands, crocheted scarves on our throats and Malt-O-Meal warmed stomachs as we stamped our snowmobile boots to the rhythmic beat of “where’s that goddamned bus?” So it might as well be called Malt-O-Memories (which would be one hell of an ad campaign. You add “remember the goodness” to the packaging and you reinvent the product) And it must be chocolate. (Plain Malt-O-Meal? Isn’t that called farina or something like that? I never quite knew what farina was … I just remember seeing it in a Mad Magazine which is an entirely different topic that I’ll end here.) Anyway, Malt-O-Meal as a cookie? I think not.

February 14, 2007

Perplexity is like a necktie. Although it’s taut around my throat, I can still speak. I can still breathe. I can still eat. I can still sip. Yet each time I swallow, I know it’s there. By the end of the morning it’s a noose that I let loose and I’m askew for the afternoon.

It’s no secret that I’ve been a bit crestfallen the last couple of weeks. The only way I could have been more obvious is if I had pushed my pockets outside my fists and rattled my head while I kicked the dirt and I mumbled, “damn” as tears rolled off my cheeks.

I couldn’t get a grasp on the “why?” lately. My bafflement dogged my mind like a tune I can’t quite recall. I knew I knew. I just didn’t know how to make it known to myself. I contemplated. I reflected. Hell - I quizzed my God, my friends, and myself.

As a quick aside - I’ve been accused of having the sin of pride many times in my life. Usually I’ve been insulted by the ones who’ve felt threatened. Their arsenal was humor aimed at a perceived hubris. And I’ll fully disclose that I’ve committed the sin of pride so often it’s a wonder that I’m balding and not sporting a mane of hair. Yet I’ve never had a pride that prevented me from inquiring when I felt baffled or asking when I felt bewildered.

Yesterday my clouded mind cleared. They say wisdom comes from the mouth of babes. What a goddamned lie. Sure … wisdom on matters of meals. I’ll listen to a tot toddle on about Gerbers but in matters that matter - give me a man or a woman with gray on the top and a face that wears wrinkles and not wastes from a badly aimed spoon. I’ve yet to be amused by a recitation of an alphabet or the countless recounting of the digits between ten and one. And another who feigns amusement I deemed dismissed. He’s either a liar or a fool. I’m disinterested in acquiring his knowledge.

A friend of mine took the time yesterday to listen to my questions and to ponder an appropriate response. And when she shared her wisdom and she offered her insight - I knew I was in the presence of the profound. She was right. I knew she was right. And I thanked God He had placed Barb in my path to remind me what was right. She was the right woman at the right time at the right place. Her words cleared my mind and restored my perspective.

People forget the glory of God. We all have bits and pieces of the puzzles in our palms and if we’d open up our fists we’d all be enlightened and we’d all have the tools to endure. And God places us beside each other to assist each other. I’m not too proud to state I need the assistance sometimes. And I’m not to proud to thank a friend who offered what she knew to a man who needed to know.

June 20, 2007

Ok … I’ll begin with complete disclosure. I smile a lot. No. I smile a lot. Now I don’t grin like a goober. But, when I’m cheerful, I smile. I’m known by my smile. I’m told it’s my best feature. I’ve often been called “Sunshine” by both genders, which makes me feel silly and slightly stupid. The other day I encountered an acquaintance who will never ascend into a friend. I just don’t care for him. He doesn’t offend me; I’m just not fond of him.

He approached me the other day and he said, “I’m trying to figure out why you smile all the time.” You know – like he had been appointed to a commission to crack this case. I think Watergate was a watershed moment in the history of baby boomers. Everyone now has a theory and everyone is collecting clues. I considered whether I should assure him that I wasn’t involved in any conspiracy. I contemplated justifying myself by revealing that the only thing I attempt to cover-up is my occasional angst, but then I remembered I wasn’t a pez dispenser who opened his mouth and spat out explanations whenever queried. So I furrowed my eyebrows and gave him a slight smirk.

Here’s what I would have said if I hadn’t chosen to save the spit: I don’t have ulterior motives. I often fly by the seat of my trousers. I’m comfortable with who I am and what I’ve achieved. I pretty much just slap it all on the counter. Oh my … I just brushed my teeth after lunch with new toothpaste (Crest Whitening with Scope - it was a giveaway with Scope Mouthwash) and I paused typing to swig a swallow of Diet Coke and the combination has flipped my stomach. Dear God don’t try it. Trust me. Ghastly.

Anyway, I’m not manipulative. I used to be. I used to enjoy the game of outsmarting others. I was goddamned gifted at it. I’ve often written that I was a prick. Need I offer constant proof of my previous putridity? But I’m too busy to busy myself in someone else’s business.

When I speak I say exactly what I intend to say. I may misspeak but I never allow the moment to pass without a correction. I don’t allow a sentence to stand if I won’t stand for it. And I won’t stand for others who try to confuse me or mine. I’ve thrown enough bullshit in my life to recognize the stench before it splatters in my space. When I write an email I mean exactly what I typed. I rarely write a personal email, yet when I do I mean each word. There’s no hidden message or disguised meaning.

As a brief aside (yes I offer them frequently) I enjoy a text message more than I do an email but I want you to know that it takes a combination of fortitude and avarice that fuels my refrain from pitching my phone against the wall when I’m texted “what u doin.” I swear to Christ I want to respond: “I looking at my goddamned phone” but I try to be tolerant. Why ask someone what he is doing when you call him or text him? If he answers you – you know what he’s doing. And just for the record - “hey” is a word not a message.

Jesus Christ – He’s trying to figure out why I smile so much. That’s so astounding on so many levels. Isn’t it? Does he so rarely experience happiness that he’s confused by the expression? Does he so rarely smile that he’s surprised by its occurrence? Does it occur to him that some people are just content? Does it occur to him that some people aren’t malcontents? Does he live in a state of distrust and so he mistrusts something so trivial? I don’t know. I haven’t a clue. I don’t even have a theory. Sometimes we’re required to tolerate people who find the normal abnormal. I don’t know why they do. Yet at least I don’t have to encounter men like him often and when I do – I know I must just grin and bear it. 

September 14, 2007

I went to the Prairie Home Companion Meatloaf Supper And Street Dance last night. It was a perfect evening. The weather was crisp yet not brisk. The crowd was enthusiastic yet not unruly. The food was tasty. Garrison Keillor is always entertaining. I’m so pleased that we went.

I was surprised how many people I saw that I knew. They say that Saint Paul is a small town and in many respects that is true. My Father was raised on Cathedral Hill and my Mother worked at the local convent. My brother Michael and my sister Carol and I attended the University of Saint Thomas. My sister Debora attended the College of Saint Catherine. The boys went to the parochial schools in the area and all three attended Saint Thomas Academy. Hell Michael coached Garrison Keillor’s stepson in basketball. When you factor in that I am among the quietest of our gang - we know most people in our area. I don’t believe I often have a day that I don’t run into at least one person from my past or my present.

So when I encountered a man that I thought more than a buddy but not yet a friend, I was pleased for the reacquaintance. I was in a jovial mood and I often enjoy the experience more than I care about the encounter. I expressed my joy and he expressed his indifference. I greeted his wife and she expressed apathy. Wait. Can someone express apathy? Expression itself proves presence of emotion. I don’t know how to describe her inertia. Either way - I wasn’t dismayed by their display. I walked away.

In my past I would have wondered about the source of his apathy. This morning I wondered about mine. Is it progression when you no longer care about the unpleasant people you encounter? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I had great fun last night. And although I disagreed with the winner of the “best loon calling” contest - I can’t quibble with a moment of the event. Oh. The couple? They’re like finding a piece of an odious onion in your meatloaf. Although it’s unwelcomed, you expected its presence. You just slice a larger bite, swallow a little faster, and chase it with your beverage. And it was good beer. Summit Pale Ale. It’s a local company. Are you surprised?

 

September 15, 2007

I pulled my head out of the refrigerator cavity and screamed my sentiment as I balanced my body with my hand on the handle. “Awe … you bought Diet Coke. Now you know why I’m friends with you,” I slavered with more than a sip of silly. “Oh get over yourself,” he echoed, “she bought it before she left. She’s trying to lose weight.” I grabbed ice from the chest and poured myself a portion.

I returned to the great room with a glass and a coaster in one fist and a bowl of chips on the other. I looked over and saw the son perched on his father’s stomach and the daughter cozied at the end of his feet. Somewhere beneath the two he sprawled. “Where’s mine?” he whined as my seat started to reach the cushion. “You didn’t say you wanted anything,” I justified. A Barbie was tied with yellow ribbons to his toes. His eyes looked longingly at my soda. His bottom lip may have quivered. I’m not certain. “What?” I exasperated. “Oh … just a glass of milk” he gasped as his son marched up his stomach toward his chest. “Milk and chips,” I scolded. “I don’t even want to know what you’re teaching your kids,” I tisked as I tottered toward the task.

I entered the room with a tumbler of milk as I coasted to the end table near his head. I silently sat the glass at its rest and sighed my way toward the seat where I’d rest, “what are we watching?” “Lady And The Tramp!” his chorus of children chimed. “My favorite,” I concurred as I sat down.

 

October 13, 2007

The telephone trilled. “My God, aren’t you even going to answer her calls?” he asked between bites.

“No man. She can sit,” he holstered his cell phone and reached for a strip. “I’m fed up. I got nothing to say and even less I want to hear.”

“You’re a prick,” he said as he washed down a bite with a bit from the bottle. “You’re honestly gonna let her get away?”

“What?” he pushed his cap to the back of his head. “You’re kiddin’ right? She pushed me away. Look at these hands man,” he held them up, “I’m innocent man. I didn’t do a damned thing.” He put one hand on the table to hold up his chin and used the other to pick up his pace. He swallowed one beer; he wanted another.

“You’re wrong man. I’m telling you - you’re wrong,” he sat back and put his last piece into his mouth while he waited for his friend to chew his judgments over.

“Ok you know what John? Shut up man. Don’t make me hate you.” They both knew it wasn’t possible but he felt the need to pose for the sake of his pride.

“Here’s why you’re wrong,” he leaned into his elbows on the table.

“Ok Padre, I’m not interested right now. Be my friend. You can be my priest when I’m less pissed.” He picked up a fry and chomped the bit for effect. “This is the part where you’re supposed to say that she isn’t worth the effort and we bitch about women.”

“I’ll handle my own participation buddy!” he laughed. “Man you’re a control freak. You even want to tell me what to say!”

“Ok, cut the shit man. If you start telling me why I’m wrong, then I’m going to have to listen. And then I’m going to have to take your advice. You know me man. I honor my lawful authorities. And I don’t want to right now. So make it easier man - give me tonight. Bitch at me tomorrow. Ok?” He closed his eyes and pulled off his cap so he could pat down his hair. “One night man - I’m only asking for one night.”

“You should hear me out before you decide you know what I’m going to say,” the timbre of his voice reflected his impatience. “You don’t owe me more than that. But we’ve been friends for almost thirty years and you owe me that as your friend. Now I’m going to get up and hit the men’s room and when I come back have your shit together because you’re pissing me off.”

He sat at the table and realized there wasn’t any way in hell this conversation was going to be tabled.

“Ok, are you being reasonable or are we just calling it a night?” he asked when he slid back inside the booth.

“Ok man. What?” he conceded without concealing his reticence.

“Could you smile man? I’m not the dentist,” he laughed.

He slapped a smile on his face that screamed affectation yet couldn’t conceal his affection. “Go man. It’s cool.”

“I don’t want to get into the argument itself. You figure all that out,” he began, “but you can’t dismiss someone over one incident. I don’t care who’s involved. You have to hear someone out. You don’t owe that to just a girlfriend. You owe that to every human being. You can’t hold someone to one incident and pronounce a final judgment. That’s not Christianity. Hell man, that’s not even decent.” He looked up to judge his progress - saw less resistance - and progressed with his pronouncement. “You should meet her and hear her out. That’s the most you owe her. If not, take her call man and listen to her. That’s the least you can do,” he sat back satisfied he had fulfilled his obligation.

A few minutes passed without any conversation passing between them. The silence was severed by the server, “You guys doing ok?”

“Yeah, can I have a Diet Coke?” he soberly asked. “You want something else John?”

“No I’m good,” he replied to his friend as the waitress backed away from their booth.

“Ok, you’re absolutely right,” he shifted his ass on the seat, “and I’ll do it. Not right now. But I’ll do it. I can‘t ride the roller coaster of her right now. I‘ve got motion sickness. But I‘ll do it.” He raised the Diet Coke to his lips and took a couple of sips. “Now can we do the all women suck part?” They laughed. “Oh my God man, remember that twisted bitch you dated in college? What was her name? Wow she was a piece of work!”

He supplied her name, “she was twisted but I sucked as a boyfriend.”

“Man you were intense. You probably took up a couple dozen of her therapy sessions,” he laughed. “I love you man. You know that.” They exchanged a pound. “Hey John, can I ask you something?”

“Say it man, you know you can,” he still sipped his first beer.

“Do you think I need therapy?” he didn’t feel like a victim; he felt vulnerable.

“Seriously?” John asked.

“Yeah. Be straight with me,” he picked up the glass and took a sip to wet his dry lips.

“No man, there’s nothing wrong with you,” his friend decreed. “You’re cool.”

“Then what’s my problem? Talk to me,” he implored.

“You expect everyone to be you,” the priest pronounced, “and it breaks your heart because no one is.”

“It’s like I’m alone all the time,” his throat trembled.

“You’re not alone. I never knew any man who was less alone. Look at all the people who surround you.”

“It’s like it’s not enough,” he confessed.

“Only God’s enough,” he said. “You taught me that.”

“You can’t feel God,” he criticized.

“Oh shut up. Yes you can. Every time you get that feeling when you’re having a real conversation with someone or when you share a real emotion with someone - that feeling you feel is God,” he sermonized.

“Yeah it is,” he admitted. “Yeah that’s right,” he said aloud to mark the moment.

“When two or more are gathered in my name,” he raised his hand and pointed a circle in the air, “I am amongst them.”

“Even in a bar?” he mused.

“Even in a bar,” he pronounced.

“You think God would drink pale ale?” he amused. “It is the nectar of the gods.”

“Shut up man!” he laughed as he reached for the bill.

“Hand me that tab Padre, there’s no way in hell I’m letting you pay. You took the vow of poverty, not me.”

“You can’t afford it anymore than I can,” he chastised.

“I can’t afford the sin of you paying for my beer!” he chuckled. “I gotta make up for all my chastity infractions.”

“Ok. It’s your call buddy,” the priest reminded him.

“I know John. I know.

 
 
 
 
 
 
January 23, 2008
© 2007-2008 Mark R Trost

He sat at the table and waited for her to arrive. He didn’t want to meet her but he said he would. He was a man of his word, so here he sat. He searched for a location and remembered that public spaces deterred public arguments. He had to do research so he chose the library. He gave his word. He was surrounded by words. He was bound and determined to make this brief.

He felt like a coward as he cowered near the nonfiction stacks. His heart was stacked against her. He just wanted out. Her behavior had been out of bounds. He was not in love with her. Although a part of him still loved her, he was bound and determined to stay apart. He wanted to part from the place, but his word was his bond and now he was bound. He hated confrontations but he embraced conclusions. So he sat. She was late.

She’d been late before. They worried the tardiness would tarnish their futures. It was never their future. They were more a duel than a dual. They weren’t a couple. They were a couple of people who wanted independence. Besides, not all babies are wanted; sometimes men are too childish to want children. And sometimes being matronly has more to do with people committed behind marital bars than babies wearing bibs.

Her body approached; his conscience reproached. He stood to greet her but backed from her kiss. “Let’s be civil,” she stated.

“I’m being civil,” he replied as she plopped her purse on the table.

“Thanks for meeting me,” she took off her coat and laid it across a chair and took her seat.

“Sure,” he backed down into the back of his chair.

“You’ve kept the beard,” she assessed.

“I like it,” he flatlined his line.

“I don’t,” she stressed.

“Kind of a non-issue now,” he sat a bit straighter.

“True,” she admitted. “Ok, there’s a few things we need to discuss.”

“What?” he inquired. “Are you pregnant?” His hands held a book; he didn’t hold his tongue.

“No, nothing like that,” she sighed. “I just want to talk about us.”

“Why?” he argued. He closed the book and hoped he’d closed the conversation.

“Why what?” she quizzed.

“Why do we have to discuss anything?” he crossed his arms. “Things didn’t work out. I’m not angry. I’m not hurt. I’m still quite fond of you. Let’s let it go.”

“Well I need to say a few things,” she insisted.

“Ok, I don’t get it. But ok. But why do I have to hear them?” He lifted his soda to his lips and took a sip.

“Well,” she stammered, “I need you to hear how I feel.”

“Why?” he queried.

“Why are you being difficult?” her eyebrows knit a blind over her eyes.

“I’m not,” he refuted. “Does it follow that if you need to say something that I need to hear it?”

“Don’t be an jerk,” she hissed.

“I’m not being a jerk. I’m dead serious. If you want to apologize, you don’t need to. You’re not at fault. If you want me to apologize, I’m not going to. I didn’t do anything to apologize for. So, what does that leave? You want me to sit here and listen to your litany of my faults? Ok. No, I don’t think I’m interested in hearing that. I mean really, wouldn’t the only reason we’d discuss it is if we wanted to get back together? Why else would we?”

“Well, how about because we meant something to each other and it’s just a nice thing to listen to someone who wants to tell you something.” She lowered her voice and matched its pitch with her eyes.

“Ok, fair enough.” He felt ashamed and contrite. “I’m a pig and I’m sorry. Go on, I’ll listen.”

“You’re the most exasperating man I’ve ever known!” she stumbled. “You’re so arrogant and you make me so angry! The problem is that you infuriate me but you inspire me too. Nobody is like you!”

“I’m taking that as a good thing?” he intruded.

“Please don’t interrupt me!” she seeped.

“Ok,” he whispered.

“Go back and finish the seminary,” she blurted. “You think you’re too old and you’re not. Go back. I never met anyone more suited to be a priest. I’m serious,” she urged. “Go finish.”

“I am too old,” he allowed aloud.

“No, you’re not,” she insisted. “And you don’t even want to get married! Besides, any woman who knows you won’t marry you! I mean it. No woman with a conscience anyway!”

“Jesus that’s harsh!” he spluttered.

“No, it’s just the truth.” Her pace quickened as she said her piece and disturbed his peace. “I went back and read your entire blog. I wanted to understand you so I read the whole thing. Go read it sometime. Go read what you’ve written. It’s all right there. It shouts priest. No woman’s gonna compete with your passion for Catholicism. They’re not. I’m not.” She rested into her seat, “And she’s not.” She arrested his heart as she rested her case. “Go be a priest.” She reached out her hand and took a sip from his soda.

He hushed until he found his voice, “I so misjudged what you were going to say. I feel like a complete horse’s ass.”

“And you should,” her whole being shook in consent. “Can I tell you something?” she advanced.

“Sure. Of course you can,” he was intent to offer his attention.

“You really are too smart for your own good,” she pulled her purse near her. “Mark, it’s obvious you know the way things should be. But you don’t always see things the way they are. No one is ever going to keep the standards you set. I mean, if they won’t keep them for God, why would they keep them for you?” She stood up and pushed the lap of her chair under the table’s lip. “You can maintain your standards and be alone or you can compromise yourself and feel guilty. But you know all that.” She bent and put her hand on his head and her lips on his kiss. “I miss you, you know. I miss seeing you at the hospital. And now I’m not going to see you at all.” She started to cry. “I gotta go. See ya,” she whispered.

“Take care kid,” he replied to her back.

She turned back, “Mark?”

“Yeah?” he listened.

“Will you pray for me?” tears streamed down her cheeks as the words streamed through her lips.

“I do every day,” he ducked the tear back into his duct.

She nodded her head, turned, and walked out of his life.

March 8, 2008

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