Today, I showed a group of men I trust my plastic baggie of 10+year-old M&Ms. (Plain, in case you’re wondering.)

It was a special moment.

And they were special men.

My buddy Snake and I hosted a warrior workshop out of my house this weekend, 13 men sitting around together to learn from each other:  what we know about ourselves, what we know as men? How do I heal a relationship with my son? My wife? How do I believe in myself again? Is it possible I could change the world for the better? We all wondered together. Snake and I shared some answers accrued over the years by other men, and said, “If this works for you, use this. And if it doesn’t, well, ignore it.”

In this short time, we learned to trust one another, listen each others’ griefs and joy in a very deep way. I allowed them to see me, and though we didn’t know each other very well at the onset, each of them softened so that I could see them as well. We were cautious at times. Learning to trust other men is a new thing, an unfamiliar, uncharted pleasure.

We sometimes chewed bagels and munched, and sometimes we strained ourselves, listening in rapt attention. We took luxurious breaks on my back porch today, eating watermelon amidts a golden Minnesota day, ocean-like breezes and a sun wearing a damn smiley-face up there. A glorious, victory for Minnesotians everywhere, this miracle day!

Our breaks lasted as long as they lasted, a big difference from my more structured corporate trainings, where I give ten minute breaks and then stick to it. No, our breaks today just kinda ended when the smokers had smoked, the rest of us stretched, and everyone got a chance to nibble from the dining table feast of fruits or coffeecake from Wuollets.Then we ambled towards our chairs and said, “Hey, let’s start up again.” I love that kind of break.

I took an odd pleasure in announcing right away Saturday morning, “My hosting responsibilities are kinda over. If you want something to drink, get it yourself from the fridge.” It pleased me to see guys go to my fridge all weekend, peer around inside, pulling out what they wanted. Mostly they grabbed sodas, but late yesterday afternoon, one guy pulled out lunch’s leftover deep-dish pizza and asked me with his eyes, “This is cool, right?”

Yeah, it was cool.

I feel loved by this odd gesture, men friends in my home who go to my fridge and get what they need. Men got their own plates, cups from the cupboards, and a buddy I haven’t seen in eight months, Hunter, washed my used dishes after today ended. It’s a special kind of intimacy when guys go into your kitchen and just start taking what they need. Means that we’re way beyond being that kind of polite.

Call it Fridge Intimacy.

So, I had Fridge Intimacy this weekend while men showed me their inner faces, the ones that bear grief, and hurt, fear for their own behaviors, sometimes ashamed and sometimes wearing proud, triumphant smiles because these men have already done fucking hard work and realized amazing things about themselves. We met as equals. We all had something to teach, something to learn.

At the end of our time together, I showed these awesome men my baggie of M&Ms, told them the story, why I keep these in my King’s Treasure Box and why I could never eat them (however with the possible exception being Zombie Attack, and I’m trapped in the house, and the M&Ms are the only food remaining).

When I was a kid, our family went to Church every Sunday. If the four of us kids were good (and we were almost always good), Mom and Dad bought us two bags of M&Ms, the original packaging, so, not super-sized. We squirmed in the backseat of the Oldsmobile, worried about Dad leaving them on the dashboard, and sometime after breakfast, Eileen or I might casually ask if we might make ourselves useful to Dad and get those M&Ms out of his suit pocket jacket for him because surely they were bulky and uncomfortable for him. We were willing to help him out with that task.

We counted out the M&Ms on the kitchen table every Sunday morning, separating them first by color, then by quantities, little groupings of 10, until the piles could be merged and The Great Dividing could begin. We worked as diamond distributors must, carefully cataloging each little gem, watching our fellow counters nervously to make sure an orange M&M didn’t suddenly slip off the table and into someone’s hand.

And who are we kidding? If anyone were going to swipe a M&M and pretend nothing happened, that would have been me.

Andrea, our elder sis, could be trusted to be fair in her distribution, so we watched carefully as she administered the treasure. Each pile had the same number of oranges, greens, tans, and dark browns, depending on what you traded. Somedays I craved more orange M&Ms, so I’d trade with Eileen who liked green because her eyes were green. Eileen and I, the middle kids, were good traders.

I day-dreamed fantasies of eating my M&M pile slowly, luxuriously, savoring each one, remembering which ones were especially tasty. That fantasy lasted a half hour before I gobbled them all down, and then went traipsing to find my sisters to see if they wanted any assistance consuming theirs. You never knew, they might want help.

Matt, the youngest, would outlast us all, appearing suddenly in the TV room Sunday night with a plastic bowl containing 14-17 M&Ms, an impressive display of day-long will power. We wondered how he could do it, how he could endure the chocolate temptation so much better than the rest of us. Enjoying Walt Disney each Sunday night was sometimes especially difficult with Matt gingerly crunching M&Ms nearby and a person had devoured his (or her) M&Ms a half hour after the distribution.

About ten years ago, as part of a Christmas gift to my siblings, I bought two bags of M&Ms, original packaging, and divided them into four piles on my kitchen table. We all got the same number, the same color, and if that meant I had to eat two orange ones to even out the piles, so be it.

I wrote a note about how we are these M&Ms, we four Manning children, and we will always be linked by our shared past, our M&Ms, our amazement at Matt’s willpower, and how our big sister did right by us on Sunday mornings, respectful counting on the kitchen table. I have learned in intervening years that not every big sister is fair and kind. I have learned that not everyone likes their siblings, miss them, wish it were sometimes possible to live in the same house again and this time figure out how not to drive each other crazy.

I have met amazing people in my life, and none of them will understand the Sunday morning M&M ritual, not like these three other people in my life. Eileen will always get me in a way the rest of the world cannot.

As part of today’s Warrior Show-N-Tell, I pulled out the my 1/4 of the booty I gave as Christmas presents 10 years ago. I explained about my family and how much I love my siblings.

Other men shared their treasures, their trinkets, photos and rings, feathers and one man showed art made by his son. We listened to each other with loving curiosity, acknowledging that we may know a lot about each other, yet there’s much we do not understand. We men remain mysteries to each other. In fact, those words might go together naturally, Men & Mystery.

After our warrior gathering had ended, I wandered around the neighborhood with my iPod, sucking in ocean-breezy air and watching the sunlight dance out of the sky. I thought about my siblings and how I miss them. They’re having lives and adventures in another state. By living here in Minnesota, I’m missing out on these day-to-day adventures, though we still manage a few hilarious adventures as adults. I chose to live here. I love Minnesota. But there are consequences that go with this choice, and I miss them.

On my iPod journey, I kept thinking, why the M&Ms?

I have all kinds of cool stuff in my King’s Treasure Box, a finger-puppet named Franco, a wishbone from Thanksgiving, my pocketwatch with one side scarred and damaged, which I’m keeping in case I ever want to become a Batman villain. Precious rocks I acquired somewhere, a gold coin from a friend, my bank deposit key, a symbol that even banks recognize what I still find hard to believe:  I Am An Adult.

With so many cool treasures, why did I share the M&Ms?

Suddenly, I remembered that I moved to Minneapolis 13 years ago this weekend. This very weekend!

Oh.

And then it was clear:  I wanted my warrior family to meet my M&M family.

I’ve been blessed with a couple different families in this lifetime, and I can scarcely believe my good fortune, to have Fridge Intimacy with new warrior buddies, and an extended Minnesota family that I couldn’t imagine when I showed up thirteen years ago. I have goddaughters here, and decade-old friendships. I have men who love me, women who love me, and a list of people to call back. I go into other friends’ house sometimes and grab a Diet Coke. In fact, Mary and Heather keep Diet Coke in their fridge for times when I come over.

I have Fridge Intimacy.

And I have another family, I am blessed to own a bag of magic M&Ms which I will never eat (unless under Zombie Attack).

Ha. Take that, little bro.

It’s Sunday night, more than 10 years after I distributed our four baggies, and I’ve still got my M&Ms.

How’s that for will power?

I ran out of gas on my way to visit my friend Ann a few years ago, and luckily the car sputtered out one mile from her home. When I was living in California for four months, I ran out of gas and had a lovely adventure finding faith in Bolineas. I’ve run out of gas other times on highways, having to hike to a gas station, one of my few experiences hitchhiking.

So this shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

Almost two weeks ago, I was headed to Iowa to teach a class when the gas pump light blazed alive, the light that means, Seriously, Find A Gas Station Now.”

I had been chatting with my editor, Rhyss, catching up after a few weeks of not chatting at all, no daily edits exchanged. Rhyss found me online in 2007, and after reading some of my online fiction, offered to edit my work, help me prepare for publication. This woman has edited literally hundreds of pages, countless hours, because she thinks I should get published.

“Uh oh.” I said into my blue tooth. “I’m out of gas.”

She suggested I call her back after I pulled over and fill up.

“Remember when I said I was calling you from the middle of nowhere, Minnesota?” I said.

Cornfields and farmland surrounded me. Yes, I was on a major highway, and yes, a gas station would show up in somewhere between 10 and 20 miles. But for right now, nothing was near. I had vague notions of a green highway sign promising the next town away somewhere in the double digits. I had even warned Rhyss a moment prior that our cell phone connection could break up any minute, due to the extreme lack of towns.

“What does your GPS say about the nearest gas station?” she asked.

“I don’t have a GPS.”

“What about triple A?” she asked.

“Not a member.”

Rhyss launched a tirade about the insanity of traveling long distances without being prepared. “You seriously don’t carry a GPS?” she marveled. “You know they’re only, like, $200?”

I grumbled.

“Didn’t you know you were low on gas when you left Minneapolis?” she asked.

“Sure, but I figured I’d get cheaper gas out here in the country.” I explained. “Then I kinda forgot. We got catching up, and I was having fun with you on the phone…”

It’s amazing to me that after running out of gas so fabulously, so regularly, I never seem to learn a lesson. I mean, the big lesson about being prepared, or just looking at the gas gauge, or maybe the lesson is about not being a cheapskate and paying 3 cents extra for gas. There’s definitely a lesson here I’m not learning.

“I’m kinda screwed.” I told Rhyss.

She instantly slipped into worry mode, pounding me with reasonable questions, like, “What will you do? Where will you go? How will you get gas to your car? Do you have a gas can?”

My answer to all was:  I dunno, with the exception of the last question, which was a decided ‘no.’

“Is it safe? Will you be killed?” Rhyss lives in New Jersey and while editing fiction of mine that has quite a bit to do with cornfields, admitted that she had never actually seen a cornfield or been this far west.

“Sure it’s safe. It’s Minnesota.”

Rhyss was not convinced.

“The sun won’t set for another hour or so. I’ll be fine.”

Rhyss was not convinced.

I actually do some things alright, and anyone reading this might be amazed to learn that I’m an excellent project manager. But I have these crazy blind spots, like not packing dress socks for business trips, or remembering to bring take-out food in from the back seat. Or putting gas in the car, apparently.

“Okay. Now, I’m worried.” Rhyss said.

I drove for several miles with no gas station in sight, no exits, or signs for exits promising upcoming towns, the two of us reviewing my lack of options.
“Why are you so relaxed?” she asked me. “What are you going to do out in the countryside with no gas?”

“I’m not relaxed.” I told her, “But this isn’t the first time I’ve run out of gas. Remember that chapter in my novel about the guy who runs out of gas but has faith in Bolinas? True story.”

“Oh, God.” She said.

Before she could fret any further, I burst out laughing into the phone.

“WHAT?! WHAT?!”

“I just passed a road sign.” I explained. “Everything’s going to be fine. The sign said that Hope, Minnesota is in 1 mile.”

“Is there a gas station?”

“Didn’t say. But it’s Hope in one mile! Everything’s going to be fine.” I promised.

Rhyss didn’t find the same comfort in the big green sign that I did, but I couldn’t stop laughing.

Hope! One mile! Ridiculous!

Maybe I’m predisposed to worry too much, to get too locked into grinding my teeth, and it takes a cosmic shovel upside the head for me to remember to have faith. I know that some people exist with greater faith than mine - oceans of faith - with a lot less proof. I must be a little slow, which is okay with me most days, because I like big flashy miracles and I seem to witness a lot of them, like worm shit, and cookies, and even creepy monkeys. I don’t actually deserve these miracles, so I must need them as reminders.

At the top of the exit ramp, a new sign promised that Hope, Minnesota was 7 miles to my right.

“Uh oh.” I said. “Hope is actually 7 miles away. There’s nothing but farmland in every direction.”

Rhyss was not happy with this news. “What are you going to do? What now?”

We didn’t work out much of a plan because, as predicted, our cell phone connection abruptly ended.

Less than one minute later, my car started slowing down.

I remember thinking, ‘Oh, wow…I’m really going to run out of gas here on an empty road. Huh.’

I didn’t feel disappointment, fear, or that the sign had misled me. I was tickled - am still tickled - that when I started to worry, “Hope, 1 mile…” appeared alongside the highway. How could I be pissy about that? I decided that maybe faith wasn’t about the outcome I wanted, but worth the sheer joy of believing it possible. Hey, so I was wrong about a gas station appearing when I needed one.

Who cares?

I saw the sign for Hope and my immediate reaction was joy. That was the true moment of deliverance, right there.

Rhyss came into my life the same way. Just at the time I realized, “Holy shit, I could be a serious writer,” she contacted me and decided that if I wasn’t a total jerk about her edits, she might choose to help me. In the past year, she has challenged me, groomed me, schooled me in publishing, writing, and lovingly called me on my stubbornness, especially when it came to my OVERUSE OF ALL CAPS. She has done this all for free. Rhyss herself was my Hope, Minnesota, appearing just as I needed an influx of support to put me on the road.

She has edited my first novel and the first third of my second. She edits every chapter as many times back and forth as is warranted, and still find times to send me links on agents and publishing news. All this for free because she now that she’s retired, she’s generous with authors she believes in. I’m not the only one she’s lovingly editing. Unbelievable.

As my car started slowed down two weeks ago, the literal version of ‘running on fumes,’ I decided to angle towards a giant barn a quarter mile away, something you couldn’t see from the Hope exit. I figured I could at least ask for help, and heck, maybe they had a gas can and would let me buy $5 worth of gas. All part of the Hope adventure.

As I drew closer, I discovered that this giant barn was actually Krause Livestock & Feed.

Out front:  a gas pump.

I used my cell phone camera to take a picture for Rhyss.

I’m tired of being threatened by candy.

I mean, c’mon. I’ve always been appropriately enthusiastic towards sweets in general, donating several dozen hours of my lifespan to consumption of cookie varieties, and I always celebrate Halloween with Peanut M&Ms and Mounds Bars, so there’s no need for ugly words.

Last week I came home one day and opened my front screen door. Inside the doorframe perched at the bottom sat two little bags of candy from an upscale confectioner in these wimpy, crinkly bags. In fat red marker on one bag, someone had written, “ENJOY IF YOU HAVE THE NERVE.” The other bag backed up his buddy, taunting me with, “IF YOU DARE.”

My running gags, I recently noticed, end up being a tug of war with friends regarding odd physical items:  DVDs, The Companion, and in some cases, bags of candy that may or may not have been violated prior to dropping off at my house.

I’m a trusting kinda guy, so it didn’t take long to dig into the bridge mix. I do love all those little chocolate balls with different textures and tastes, each one a big fat surprise. Chocolate raisins, milkballs, one that tasted a lot like a chocolate covered cherry, which was really, really good.

“You ate from it?” a friend said the other night on the phone, “It had a threatening note on it and you ate it?”

Oh, please.

These weren’t the first bag of candy to show up. I wasn’t particularly alarmed by the presence of the candy so much as the bloody note with jagged letters.

About three years ago, my buddy John and I stopped at a Fleet/Farm on our way to staff a NWTA weekend on a YMCA camp outside Brainerd. While checking out, I showed John my purchase, a bag of chalky, chocolate boulders, resulting in his prediction that utter disgust and movie-quality vomiting would soon follow.

“It’s mysterious.” I argued. “I’ve never actually seen candy this color or shape.”

“It’s chalky.” He grabbed the bag and broke one in half. “And it breaks like coral reef.”

To this day, I would not say that John was right about his assessment, but I would concede that I was utterly disgusted and almost vomited. The things tasted like a diswashing sponge you find under the oven six months later, think, ‘oh yeah,’ I thought I lost that. Regular water can no longer work its softening magic, it’s too far gone. The chocolate tasted like the under-the-oven part. (But I won’t admit that he was right.)

After eating a half dozen of these, complaining about the taste to anyone who I thought might offer sympathize, I finally did the right thing and stuffed the remaining chocolate into a friend’s gear. John had already warned me of the dire consequences in hiding the offending chocolate in his sleeping bag.Threats were made.

Jeeze. Sensitive.

Instead, I stuffed the candy in Brett’s duffel bag and promptly forgot about it, having solved an awkward problem. I hate throwing away food, even if it tastes like a sponge.

Hours later, I was surprised to find the exact same bag of candy back in my own luggage. I had seen Brett and hung out with him, but he had said nothing about finding the candy or returning it. I decided to assume Brett did not feel worthy of such a fine gift, but I wanted to insist he was worthy, so I promptly returned the candy to a side pocket in his backpack.

We spent the rest of the weekend sneaking into each others’ rooms re-stashing the candy when we could sneak into each other’s rooms. He caught me once hovering over his pillow case and we struggled while I tried to force one into his mouth. He swore and fought me, threatening a head butt, which would hurt because I have a big head. On Sunday, his gear was gone from the room, which meant I had to drop off the candy in Brett’s car, only to find it locked. A note on his luggage said, “Ha ha.”

The chocolate rode home in his spare tire wheel well, where, according to Brett, it weathered most of the winter.In the intervening years, it has passed back and forth between us several times. I have wrapped it in a gift box and gave it to him through a mutual friend, visiting from Texas. Breet once left the candy the air vent thingee on the hood of my car, which isn’t a terribly original hiding place, but considering I was driving at the time, trying to throw him off the hood doing half-doughnuts while he  while he stared at me like a Bond villan, I was impressed. Brett’s committed.

Unfortunately, I was driving a guest at the time, a warrior who flew in from the east coast to staff with us and he clutched his sidedoor in terror while I honked the car mainically, screaming, “GET OFF MY FUCKING CAR!”

“NEVER!” Brett yelled back.

That was a good day.

I do remember that Brett and my car passenger became great friends, and he now mentors Brett. So other than a few terrifying moments, no permanent damage.

Less than a month ago, Brett tricked me into accepting the candy from another warrior, after a heartfelt blessing. We were once again at the same YMCA camp with easy access to each others’ luggage.
Hello Fleet/Farm nemesis. We meet again.

For an item that I paid less than $2 for, this nasty bag of candy has traveled hard: the chalky chocolate melted inside and then resolidified as a thin, dirty, chcololate plateau. There’s little broccoli greens in there from my attempt to turn Brett’s son against him. The bag has been handled by dozens of hands now, so it’s greasy with fingerprints.

Also on this last NWTA staffing, I found an anonymously delivered bag of chocolate, a bridge mix, in my duffel bag. Looked alright to me, no damage. No rabbit turds in the bottom or something. I felt confident Brett had put it there as a reminder that while we play fight, we love each other a lot.

Brett and I have breakfasts together after which we both leave vibrating, goofy and changed for the rest of the day, each charged up by having someone listen to us so lovingly. He’ll quote something brilliant, or a story he read, because loves to read up on the people in the world changing their hearts, and he craves to be one of them, without sometimes forgetting he already is. He is wise and clever too. And while he sounds like a hippie, he works a Marketing division head and he keeps surviving horrible layoffs because they think he’s defintely a keeper.

A week later, I finally thanked Brett for the bridge mix I had devoured, he laughed and promised that it wasn’t from him.

“Oh.” I said, “I thought you did it because you felt guilty.”

“Guilty? I’ve done nothing to feel guilt about. Quit projecting your shit on me.”

So, who put the latest candy offering in my duffel bag? I’ve asked a few men; no one admits to it. But they smile, as if maybe they might know. There’s a new secret chocolate agent out there.

Then a few days ago, the candy yelling at me in red marker on my front stoop. Two days after that, I had breakfast with Brett.

“I got some threatening candy on my front door the other day.” I said.

“Yeah, me too.” he said. “I figured it was from you or from Stephen.”

“Stephen. He confessed.”

“Yeah.”

Stephen is an exceptional, third musketeer. Stephen has witnessed Brett’s and my scarier nights, and we have his. I love being part of the Three Musketeers, crazy-fun friendships where there’s also some deep trust, deep work taking place. I understand now why those guys got matching hats and cloaks, because it’s fun to have a triad friendship that’s really rich, with lots of goofy swordplay and sometimes offering each other support.

Brett paused and looked at me, saying something like, “God, what is wrong with you? The bag said, ‘IF YOU DARE.”

“I am so sick of being threatened by candy.” I said a bit defensively.

I recently found a plastic chimp in the cupboard above the stove.

He’s smallish (key-chain sized), crouched forward with wide, glassy eyes. I found this chimp grinning in front of my cook books and thought, “Hey. A chimp.”

My reaction wasn’t HOW THE HELL DID THAT GET THERE but rather, “Hey. A chimp.”

Curious.

I’m not terribly surprised; friends give me things. My buddy Perry delights in sending me ghoulish dolls so when I call him to thank him (my voice full of dubious gratitude), he says, “Isn’t it horrible? I wouldn’t want it my house; I don’t think I could sleep with that thing in my house.”

Over the years, Perry has gifted me disturbing postcards with dead-eyed dolls, actual dolls (because dolls are creepy) and a bulbous-headed wooden creature that defies description as an animal:  dog? Monkey? Is the thing human?

This aqua-colored creature is distressed, using both meanings: it’s painted and scraped but also when someone comes upon it suddenly in my house, the thing elicits an “OH GOD” of instant repugnance. (I guess that’s distressing rather than distressed.) It’s Egyptian-like eyes and slightly twisted ‘un-smile’ make the thing more sinister than you’d ever think.

It’s a carved, wooden antique, something Geppetto would have burned after carving it, because he wanted a real son, not an undead evil force. However, it was a gift from someone I love, so I bent its stiff wooden legs into a sitting position and the thing now sits on the edge of a dying, potted fern, footless-legs dipped in the dry soil.

About nine years ago, my friend Dave borrowed my power sander and I artfully hid the bulbous-headed thing under sandpaper, hoping to give him a good scare.

“Why the hell did you do that?!” Dave yelled at me over the phone, three minutes after the discovery.

“Do what?” I said sweetly, proud of myself.

“You know what I’m talking about. I found that thing in the bag. The Companion.” Dave said. “It’s name is The Companion and you know it.”

Instead of laughing, I recoiled, because Dave had accidentally spoken its true name aloud. Of course I had never named it; but I recognized the truth of the name.

Dave’s very intuitive, touching another world with his wonder and unique energy. He often believes the best about people, and then he bends reality to fit this vision. I am honored we’re friends because he’s better than “good people,” he makes me want to be “good people.” He’s practical, too, so he’s not just wide-eyed and dreamy. Yet he sometimes bends the world to work just like he imagines, and I find that impressive.

So when he called the thing “The Companion,” I jumped uncomfortably because he didn’t just invent a name, he called that creature by it’s name.

When house guests recoil in horror and gasp, “What the hell is that?” I am required to sadly say, “It’s The Companion.”

Everyone knows the disastrous first step in Teenage Horror Movie formula is to pronounce aloud the thing’s true name. Three rules:  1) Don’t call the ultimate evil by name/read spells from an ancient book, 2) Don’t be near a secret government lab or accidentally collect ancient talismans, Egyptian necklaces, cursed oil paintings, etc. 3) Don’t be a virgin.

Idiot kids in those movies think, “We probably shouldn’t read from this ancient book, but what are the odds of a government lab and virgin blood nearby, the two necessary ingredients to unleash the spell?”

Uh huh.

I myself do not worry about The Companion because I do not live near a secret government lab, nor am I a virgin. (Well, technically, yes, I’m a virgin. I’ve never had sex with a woman. But, as a gay man, that kind of virginity doesn’t count. Right?)

See where this is going?

My friends are creepy.

They say creepy things and mail me creepy stuff and they torture me by leaving it for me in my kitchen cupboards for me to find weeks later and I think, “Hey. A chimp.” I keep searching for a common denominator, but I can’t quite name that common thread. What’s with all these people?

I decided my friend Michael (who loves gorillas) is goofy enough to leave me a chimp, so I called and left a snarky voicemail, busting him. Imagine my surprise two days later when Ron said during a telephone call, “Did you find anything in your kitchen cupboards lately?”

Ron works a big job at a big financial institution. He watches the wobbles of our international economy and he may actually have some insight into stuff. He tries to influence things towards the best outcomes, but the world feels very uncertain these days, so who knows? He’s worried. I didn’t think he had time to plant creepy monkeys in my kitchen. I love how Ron often surprises me.

Pressing this magic button emits a piercing screech and the chimp’s crystal eyes blaze a blinding blue light. When I say blinding, what I mean is “blinding,” because for the last week or so I’ve been testing it with friends, making them peer into the chimp’s crystal eyes and then I say, “Watch.”  I press the button and they jerk their heads away, rubbing their eyes and calling me an asshole.”I know!” I say excitedly. “It’s surprising how strong that little light is. It really hurts your eyes, doesn’t it?”

I asked Ron why he bought such a gift and he said, “Well, because you collect creepy monkeys.”

I gently protested this alleged collection.

“Well,” said Ron, “There’s the painted wooden one with the fez and vest on your hutch with all the plants.”

“That’s just one.” I said.

“And the horrible Father Christmas monkey you tried to give away as a prize at your Halloween party but nobody would take.”

Two.

“Plus, The Companion.” said Ron.

When other people experience those “light bulb moments,” I imagine they always see fuzzy, yellow light and feel a soft glow of recognition. My light bulb moments always flash dangerously, orange-flickering moments where you can see the hot filament burning and the glow of recognition blurts out, “Oh fuck!”

“Three creepy monkeys is a coincidence.” I said to Ron. “That’s weird, but not - ”

At that exact moment, my eyes caught sight a gorgeous carving of a Chinese diety on my fireplace mantle:  The Monkey King. The exquisitely carved statue came from San Francisco’s Chinatown and is associated with the best person I met in San Francisco during my four months. And I gotta tell ya, I met some pretty awesome people out there.

Greg and I met shortly after I occupied the tree house. On our second date, I felt like crap but we really wanted to see each other, so we ate take-out from a health food store on an outdoor stone bench at the intersection of Noe and Henry. I felt like crap and Greg made concerned, frowny faces across from me because he felt bad that I felt bad. I remember thinking, “This is why we go on dates. For moments like this.”

I remember wishing I felt better and could enjoy the date a little more.

My sparkling life moments are often tempered by sober reality. It’s the ying and yang, I guess. Great joys, tied up with some creepy detail that throws off the moment. Recently, I have had great breakthroughs regarding my heart while I worried about money. I wrote my best-ever fiction in 2008, while dealing with some ugly, dark shit. And while I try to be grateful for beautiful moments, sometimes my inclination is to say, “Yes, but could I have the great breakthrough without being broke? Could I have this fantastic date and not feel queasy?”

Maybe not. Maybe it’s all necessary.

Although we did not date long, Greg and I developed a sweet friendship that endures. Greg will always have a place of honor in my heart. In fact, I recently bought us both matching Monkey King T-shirts from a cool website because the The Monkey King myth means something special to us. Note: I do not categorize my Monkey King statue as ‘creepy’ in any way, but he’s fierce and intimidating, which others might see as creepy.

I shared with Mary-Scott how “Crazy Ron” thinks I have a creepy monkey collection just because of four quite unusual monkeys in my home. Anybody could happen to have four very unique monkeys in their home and not own a collection. (Besides, nobody can be sure The Companion is a monkey.) I knew she would understand.

“Did he count The Companion?” she said.

“Yes.” I said, a bit testily because I had expected sympathy.

“And of course, Bongo.” she said.

“Bongo?” I said, surprised.

“He didn’t know about Bongo?” asked Mary Scott.

Bongo is my beanie baby I once kept in an office job. He was kidnapped one day by coworker friends, and I only happened to notice this because I was anonymously invited through a fake email address to view photos. I caved to the monkey-napper demands and Bongo was returned safely.

When I saw the Bongo photos the first time, I remember thinking, “Hey. There’s Bongo.”

“HE DIDN’T KNOW ABOUT BONGO?” Mary-Scott said, laughing. “What about how you send all those chimp emails with their creepy voices? Did he know about that? Has Ron gotten one of those from you?”

I remained silent.

Mary-Scott laughed harder. When she could speak at last, she said, “Surely, surely Ron knew about your Dad’s Monkey Face, that expression he taught you and your siblings. He knows you can make yourself look like Dr. Zaius, right?”

I remained silent.

As Mary-Scott howled with laughter, that orange-flashing bulb smashed itself itself on and off, that Halloween recognition that perhaps, just perhaps, I have a Creepy Monkey collection.

Then while discussing this creepy monkey situation with my brother, I suddenly remembered a beloved limp doll from my childhood, a monkey, (aptly named ‘Monkey’) that I barfed on one night while reassuring him that Mom would help us with this stomach ache. My vomit-stained monkey was never seen again. Talking with Matt reminded me of Franco.

Huh.

Earlier today, I complained to Ron about talking to “Crazy Mary-Scott.” He listened quietly and said, “What about those sexually explicit Curious George cards we traded back and forth through the mail? Did you count those?”

Crap.

What’s that second rule in horror movie after the unfortunate naming or reading from a book of spells? You suddenly realize you’re in a government lab or that you’ve accidentally been collecting ancient talismans. Uh oh. And what comes next - blood of a virgin?

Oh fuck.

Reason #1

Last Sunday, I received two homemade Valentines from my goddaughters. Logan cut out a big red heart and had a whole paragraph which read, “Dear Ted I hope you have a grate valmines Day. I Love You love Logan.” Cian’s Valentine had a rather idealized version of me, half of my head covered in scruffy (painful-looking) hair, and the other half of my head bald. A green pickle wiggled intimately next to my head.

“The pickle is your cell phone.” Cian’s Mom, Heather, explained to me. “Don’t ask why.”

“I’m never on my cell phone around your girls.” I objected.

“I know.” Heather says. “Don’t ask.

At the exact moment I was attacked by over-eager Valentine Givers, both of them fighting to get me to look at theirs first, three words flash through my heart:  I am important.

I matter enough that they made me awesome, colored, crafty cards. In addition to the green pickle with camera capabilities, Cian’s Valentine includes all of us walking in front of an orange house: her two Moms, her big sister, me and a guy named Mike. I think Mike is a classmate and friend.

Mike, wherever you are, whoever you are, you’re important enough to stay on my fridge for a few months.

Reason #2

Today I got encrypted email.

A current client insists on certain precautions with their private data, and I don’t blame them. It’s a sign of the times, I suppose. And ultimately it’s not that big a deal:  anyone who can download software can have encrypted emails. All you need is a mouse and some patience to figure it out.

Nevertheless, when that first email arrived, 44 rows of encrypted code showed up:

A8GVY5R8C32S7BB9
T9A1R5G6HN34DV8K
S8FG6V53W8CN6983
E9Z83HC52H67CK20L

I was thrilled!

Secret code! I am important!

I had this rush go through me, strong resonance with my childhood, wanting to grow up and do important things in the world. The kind of things that are so damn important that you have to speak in code, it’s the best way. And sure enough, I’m doing something so important that we have to speak in code. I am really, really important.

It just made me laugh. I got a email which literally required secret decoder keys!

Reason #3

The phone rang this morning. John in Arizona called on his way to work with important news. He was in the grocery store moments earlier, and passed a woman speaking to her daughter propped in the grocery cart, apparently eating string cheese.

“So, Dude,” gushed John. “As I walked by, the only little snippet of conversation I heard was, ‘Oh Sam, you’re always so good with the cheese.’ That’s it! What the hell was that? What does that mean?”

We discussed the many interpretations of the cheese line, and we practiced saying it a few different ways, trying it out. John imagined dark scenarios, of a violent Mom used Swiss to sooth her daughter in public. I had a much more uplifting theory:  Cheese Prodigy. This kid is going to do great things with cheese later in life and her Mom will always pride herself on how supportive she was, learning of her daughter’s gift.

John would have none of it.

“I gotta go.” he said soon we exchanged a few theories. “I had to tell someone about that. Later!”

As I hung up, I realized again, I am important.

I am someone you call when you see something weird. That’s an important phone call, right? You see something bizarre in the world or you overhear a phrase and you think, “Who would appreciate this?”

On the other hand, maybe John called me because I’m the kind of guy who would recognize a Cheese Prodigy if I met one in the supermarket.

John and I didn’t get a chance to talk much this morning; he had places to go, things to do.

Apparently, he is important as well.

Yesterday was my older sister’s birthday.

I feel like it’s probably going to come across as weird when I say that I called my sister at 12:45 a.m. and yelled, “CONGRATIONS! IT’S YOUR BIRTHDAY!” into the phone.

But it’s not odd, no, no. It’s just family.

Years ago we crammed three parties into one for our extended clan, big sis, our cousin, and myself  recently achieved a college-degreed. One party, one giant sheet cake. Several of us kids agreed to pick up in the local cake maker’s home, hoping we could maybe get an extra swipe of frosting when no one was looking.

Well, that was my agenda.

In still-kinda-farmtown Huntley, Illinois, the cake maker was well known and we had received some delicious cakes in the past. Delicious, yes. But often oddly-decorated. Her frosting roses were sometimes labeled “interprative.” You kinda had to be very specific with her on the phone about what you wanted. You had to make her write it down and read it back to you, usually.

Upon first glance, the cake looked like an enormous frosted tombstone, textured with a bloody red rip down the center. There was a splurty red squiggle in the left corner too. To our further surprise the center of the cake didn’t quite say “Congratulations!” No, it was pretty close but there were some letters missing. But you know, uh, A for effort and all that.

The siblings on Cake Retrieval Patrol looked at each other nervously, recognizing the spelling error but the party started in two hours. What can you do? There was no point in demanding that she fix it - the cake maker thought it was fine as is. And on the plus side, the bloody, red cursive frosting was so erratically smeared that it was almost illegible anyway.

See? Always a sunny side.

After our guilty cake parade to the dining room table and the big reveal, Mom was not happy.

Not. Happy.

We all gathered around it, nervously musing on how to do something different with it. Maybe scrape something away and try to make a new shorter word? Could we… the day was hot. We didn’t have central air. The red frosting was beginning to run in blood rivulets.

Flash forward:  inspired by the cake disaster, Mom, Eileen, and Andrea all enrolled in ten week cake-decorating class and were often surprised by their odd results. They giggled a lot in class. As homework, they kept making clowns made of vanilla frosting crawling up Budweiser cans in the fridge. Apparently beer cans area a good smooth surface for practicing your frosting clowns. (Everyone does a clown cake at some point. Be practical.)

While visiting my folks one weekend, I opened the fridge to find this little delightful combination of two things I enjoy:  beer and frosting. I never really thought of actively marrying these two but I recognize a winner when I see it.

“Oh yeah,” Dad explained over his newspapers. “Those are Andrea’s beer clowns. Don’t drink those.”

For weeks after that particular frosting homework was completed, beer clowns kept showing up in the fridge and they would eventually getting pummeled by leftovers in aluminum foil or sharp-edged Tupperware, clown heads crushed by the pickle relish jar. It was sad how they always ended up in violent deaths near the crisper.

Mom, Eileen, and Andrea were the only three students in their large class not invited to the advanced cake decorating class and I am not making this shit up.

My family has frosting issues.

Anyway.

Back on that triple party day, standing around the “Congrations cake,” I think it was Eileen who said it first:  “Ma-ba-bsn.”

We were so nervous about presenting Mom with the bloody ‘Congrations’ cake that we barely noticed that the three honorary college degrees were smeared together almost as one word in the lower left corner. It almost looked like it could be the artists’ signature in that corner. Michelangelo of the cake decorating community.

But it was what Mom had requested and she spelled out over the phone, acronyms of our three degrees:  Andrea’s Master of Arts, my Bachelor of Arts, and our cousin’s nursing degree:  Ma-ba-bsn.

Well, fuck.

Mom was furious. We skulked underfoot offering to be helpful, until Mom begin chuckling. Suddenly we all started laughing about the silliness of everything. Someone turned to Andrea, and said, “Well Drew, you know, congrations and everything.”

We kinda lost it after that.

Ten minutes into the party, we greeted arriving guests at the door giggling, “Congrations to you! Come check this out! And ma-ba-bsn, as they say.”

Well, what the fuck are you gonna do? We gathered to celebrate triple victories in an often impossible world, so why sweat the stupid stuff like a cake with a crushed jaw that can only mumble partial words?

Fuck it all and just cebate.

After accepting my hearty congrations the other night, big sis and I chatted for the next two hours about our lives, things that excited us lately, you tube videos, and I whined about my book club book:  the book was too long, the author’s journalistic integrity was in question, his perspective biased, and plus he used big words which hurt my brain.

We laughed about a few things from our four decades together on the planet, but most of our talk the other night was somber. There was a death in our extended family last week. We talked about relatives we love, the ones we barely know. How it hurts to love these odd strangers sometimes. This eventually brought us to reflect how our parents are aging, and how we both still need Mom and Dad to be our parents sometimes. They claim that they have retired from parenting but we’re not letting them off the hook so easily.

I sometimes call Mom to remind me how to bake a potato.

I think all of us kids are afraid of being orphaned by these wonderful friends of ours. And yes, we do spend some time bitching about how they can also drive us crazy. But you know what? We love that part about them too.

Listening to her voice in the dead of night, I remembered small details about Andrea that come back in laughter and pauses, little vocal tics that I know really well. Yet, we don’t talk that often over the phone; we both get busy and forget.

We know each other better than siblings in other families do, because she and I have also been friends for many years. And there have been some difficult years between my big sister and I. We have suffered in our friendship and we have both grieved. But it’s a friendship that evolves. It’s complicated sometimes; it’s family. And it’s easy to lose two hours jabbering with an old friend who still thinks I’m hilarious once in a while.

Andrea and I got off the phone around 2:45 a.m. It was a week night; both of us had to work the next day.

Did I mention we’re night owls?

Night owls with frosting issues.

Well, what the fuck are you gonna do?

Ma-ba-bsn.

Someone grab me a beer clown from the fridge.

2007 was the year that had killed Anna Nicole Smith and The Sopranos. 2007 included Minnesota’s horrible bridge collapse over I-35. Another year of the Iraq War. On New Year’s Eve, we gloated about this challenging year’s imminent surrender to its innocent replacement, the now-vanquished 2008.

Also this same year, I lived in San Francisco for four months, including New Year’s Eve. Because I was visiting a different city and Trying New Things (one of 2007 resolutions occasionally governing my behavior), I bought a ticket to a big bash and headed downtown for a wild night.

Well, wild for me.

Given that my Minnesota tradition is to make myself a nice dinner, a roaring fire, polish my New Year’s Resolutions, and then stroll around frozen Lake Harriet between 11:30 p.m. - 12:30 a.m., pretty much anything in public would be wild for me. Visiting a gas station and buying a Kit-Kat would count as a party by the circumstances of my life.

I’m really not a fan of big bar events or big bashes anywhere, yowling cheer, and the forced fun that seems to so hard to manufacture for New Year’s. (Although I do like the shiny party hats and sparkling confetti. Confetti is like how joy feels when it surprises me, and I like joy.)

But on New Year’s Eve, I feel tangible peer pressure to be having MORE fun than you’ve ever had at night, MORE joy, MORE liquor…as if an entire year could be summarized in remembering top ten lists and frantic kisses.

Ugh.

I don’t do well under that kind of joy-pressure.

Gimmie the Charlie Brown Christmas music, candles, and a Bailey’s Irish Cream. (Oh, Mom, last night I cooked with the new wok you guys got me for Christmas. Beef, red pepper snowpea thing I found on the internet. The wok is awesome. Thanks again!)

So anyway, last year on 2007’s New Years’ Eve, I wore a flashy shirt, new jeans. Fresh hair cut. Ready. On the Muni I ran into this dude, someone I knew from around the Castro; we had talked a few times. He raises urban chickens, and we knew someone in common. On the Muni, we chatted about this and that, the holiday, the imminent party. How we don’t normally do this, but…

The evening was chilly for San Fran, but pretty cool and sultry by Minnesota standards so I left leather jacket unzipped. I had to desert the Muni friend in search of cash. Found an ATM two blocks away. Had to pay for all those expensive drinks. Even if it’s just Coke, it’s still damn expensive. $4 for a bottle of water? Sheeesh.

A guy used the ATM in front of me and I waited while he pushed his series of digits, his PIN, collected his cash, and then zipped away. Not particularly noticeable, I guess, youngish. Mid-20s. Maybe late 20s, I wasn’t paying much attention.

When I got to the machine after him, I saw he had left his bank receipt sticking half-in the machine. He had already disappeared around the corner and there’s always that little pile of abandoned receipts on top of a machine.

Of course, I looked at his receipt while entering my own PIN.

His balance was $0.00.

He had just withdrawn his last $60.

This guy was headed into 2008 with nothing.

Weird.

Was he going to a club like me? (Fuck it all - let’s get drunk!) Or did he just get cash because he’s out of medicine for his daughter? Or is he headed back to Shreveport, Louisiana because this city is too fucking expensive, he learned that the hard way. I looked for him up and down the street when my transaction was done. But I didn’t see him, where he scurried off to. Did he leave the receipt in the machine as a defiant gesture to the banking gods?

I studied his ATM receipt under some flashing neon light and then pocketed it.

The rest of the night I hung out with my ATM buddy. How tall was he again? Did I think he looked, like, young 20’s or mid-20’s? I tried to recall details about him. Did our eyes meet for a split second, one of those exchanges where you see that you’ll never meet again for the rest of your life, but hey, I see that you’re a person like me. A person with a life.

The 2007 party was kickin’ (I think that’s what the kids were saying in those days) with literal screaming, leering, yelled conversations with beer spit, actual groping (which was fun once or twice), and some generally expected drunkenness.

Was ATM Guy here? Was he spending his last $60 here?

Where would he go the next day, when it officially became 2008?

Just about every Thursday during my San Francisco tenure, I helped a Catholic priest feed people in the Tenderloin. I sound really glamorous in that last sentence, so I’m not actually changing a goddam word, but the truth is I scooped stew into styrofoam bowls and it wasn’t hard and since I didn’t make the stew, it wasn’t particularly selfless.

The priest cooked the entire meal, gathering bruised fruit and discarded food items from restaurants. A big score meant shitty energy bars, cookies, something  with sugar. I just dished it out and stood there while people thanked me profusely, feeling ridiculous for my limited contribution. But I chatted with folks, listened a bit. We joked around. I unloaded the priest’s car and washed our dirty dishes in the alley gutter.

Some of these people I chatted up were dead, so almost dead yet still clinging to life, maybe a life that’s hopefully going to change next year. It was heartbreaking every week to see someone so grateful for the food and promising that this time I’m going to make it. I’m not going back to that bitch, crystal.

I wondered if I had ever served ATM Guy dinner.

Did we talk about rain and cops for a few minutes? A woman once explained how to keep rats out of your hair when sleeping. I wondered if ATM Guy and I shook hands and looked each other in the eye. Maybe not. He had a bank account, after all. Once I had established myself as a regular in the alley, if I missed a week, some of the regulars would say, ‘Where the hell were you last week?’ As vain as this seems, I was incredibly flattered that my absence was noticed.

But the Tenderloin was still another 20 blocks away from here, not close exactly. Not too far, though.

The 2007 New Year’s Eve party remained in progress.

Huh. Yes, I think my description - quite spontaneous mind you - of a bumping, grinding, barely-clothed dance orgy, somehow captures my actual enthusiasm pretty damn well. “The party remained in progress.”

Clearly, I was impatient to leave, impatient to get the fuck out of there, but it was New Year’s Eve and I had to stay until, you know, until everybody screamed HAPPY NEW YEAR and we are all drunk together. I had to stay for that. But when I checked a clock it was only 11:09 p.m.

My jaw snapped together so hard I bit my tongue. Jesus, why wasn’t it midnight already? Another 50 minutes? Yer killin’ me. Various times, I tried polite conversation with a few friendly guys, just chit chat with strangers, but it was really hard with my heart elsewhere. Where was ATM Guy? Is he getting paid tomorrow? Did he just cut it close this month?

By the time we began the big count down, 10…9…8… I had planted myself in the middle of everything. The screaming, the drunks, the wobbly and already-wasteds, everyone frenetic in this unhappy gloom of desperate cheer.

Wow, I’m fun at parties, aren’t I?

7…6…

Golly, I can’t imagine why nobody tried real hard to chat with me that night. I’m sure all the grimacing and teeth-grinding was sexy to other men in a ‘hardware-store-stalker’ kind of way. (I saw Zodiac, a 2007 release about a San Francisco serial killer who worked in a hardware store.)

I’m sure I came across much sexier that night. No, really. But even at the big count down, I-

5…4…

I couldn’t stop thinking about my ATM friend.

3…2…

His account number ended with xxx1910. The location of our meeting says ‘Golden Gate.’ Available balance $0.00.

1…

Total balance $0.00.

Midnight!

All that sexy teeth grinding really paid off because midnight came after all. It’s funny because I wasn’t worried about midnight the previous night or the night before that. But 2007 New Year’s Eve, we all collectively breathed easier when 2008 showed up because we all needed a new year, a fresh start.

I looked around and saw this Japanese guy, totally handsome. He looked at me with a little wary recognition, someone else non-verbally communicating, ‘This is weird, right? That this is how we celebrate a new year? I’m not very comfortable here, but I’m trying it out.’

It’s a lot to communicate in a single glance, but he did it.

I nodded in agreement and so we kissed, a really sweet and longish kiss because he was actually pretty hot. I was like, Hey. Right on.

I knew then, so did he, that we would never be in each others’ lives again, but we will always be in each other’s New Year memories. We mattered to each other for one brilliant kiss. That handsome Japanese guy made my top five list of New Year’s Eve kisses. (Actually, there are only five kisses total. But this dude is #3, so that’s pretty damn good actually for a non-relationship kiss.)

We acknowledged each other with a happy nod and I brushed his forehead with the palm of my hand. He stroked my fuzzy head and we kissed again, quickly this time. The happy swell of drunken singers pushed and pulled us further apart, we drifted on the ocean of that Auld Lang Syne song. We nodded goodbye and our time knowing each other in this life was complete.

I left the bar at 12:05 a.m.
All this merriment had exhausted me and I wanted to catch a J line to Church and Dubose before the train was coated in New Year’s barf.

Oh yes:  Fun. At. Parties.

I taped the ATM receipt in this book that I keep, a blank pages notebook that’s cardboard covered and thoroughly tattooed with the every-day details of my lie. The book mostly contains To Do lists, things I cut out of newspapers to read about further. Website addresses with good intentions to visit. Lists of phone calls I haven’t yet returned, sodoku columns of things like, 5,4,3,6 and 3,4,7, sharing space with half-composed poems, lines copied from novels, and inspirational quotes.

Next to a beautiful poem written by a fellow Warrior Monk are instructions demanding: RETURN THAT GODDAM BOOK TO THE LIBRARY, YOU DUMB ASS!

Pretty informal scrapbook, I would say.

Once in a while, I stumble upon the ATM receipt when I flip there accidentally and I wonder where he is. We spent last New Year’s Eve together, this guy and I. I know him. But I’ll never know if that was his worst New Year’s ever or maybe just typical, shrug-your-shoulders kind of way. He could be a millionaire this year, his software genius finally having paid off.

I stare at ATM Guy’s receipt as I type this.

The book is open to this page, because I’ve thought about him a lot today. Last night, I did my Minnesota New Year’s Eve:  made this awesome wok dinner and walked around Lake Harriet. The temperature was around 4 degrees. I found this out because today I whined to my pal Dave, “It felt like it as 2 degrees out there last night.”

“Well, you’re close.” He told me. “It was 4 degrees. Way to go with that tradition where you almost die of exposure alone by a frozen, deserted lake. Good traditions you got there, frosty.”

But I didn’t go alone. I took ATM Guy with me.

Told him about my year. Asked him about his. He’s quiet. I mostly see the back of him, walking away. But I can still kinda see him in my mind’s eye. I somehow managed to remember him a little bit. Honestly? I wished he had sent me a sign last night, just something to let me know that he wished me a Happy New Year too.

Is it so much to ask for a sign? Something free - he doesn’t have to spend money on it.

Later today, New Years Day, I had beers with a man I mentor, a newish friend. He’s a filmmaker and I admire him. He’s a strong, tender man. He’s trying to make the world better the way that he knows how. Today we listened to each others’ trials of grief and fear, love and hope. He had some big stuff in 2008. I gave him some raspberry jam. He gave me a CD of his recent film work hugged by a simple green ribbon and we were both delighted by the exchange, these perfect gifts of affection and effort.

He stood up to leave and flipped up the hood on his heavy jacket.

A large sprinkle of sparkling red and blue confetti came shooting out of the hood, over the table, sparkling onto us both a little bit. Just like someone had thrown it at midnight.

We laughed at the sparkling crap.

“Sorry.” he said sheepishly. “I didn’t even know it was in there. Me and my lovely lady went to a party last night, big thing.” (He didn’t say lovely lady, but I thought it sounded sexy to write ‘lovely lady’ and I didn’t want to reveal her specific name.)

“No, no,” I said almost in tears. “This is perfect. I like New Year’s confetti and I didn’t have any this year. That was totally surprising and perfect. I love it.”

Thank you, ATM Guy.

I was thinking about you too.

In September, I spent a weekend with family in Huntley, Illinois.

My sisters and brother and I were heartily enjoying a delicious Mom-cooked feast on the three-season porch, the golden rays of evening sun and backyards greens visible in every direction. I don’t want to make this seem too idyllic or anything, but there were definitely butterflies humping around the yard, I’m sure of it.

With some hesitation, Mom announced, “Dad has a subject he wants to discuss.”

It’s not uncommon for Mom to queue up Dad in this way:  she’ll often announce Dad’s intention to discuss a topic with us. (It always feels like the dreaded parental ’sex talk’ is right around the corner, but all four of us kids are either almost-forty or over forty. I think it’s a little late for that chat.) But Dad is often equally surprised as us kids and he will turn his big startled eyes turns to her and croak, “I do? I have a topic?”

But this September evening he was ready for her softball.

Dad looked at us over his glasses. “We think one of you is stealing our silverware.”

Matt and I looked at each other. Eileen and I looked at each other. Andrea and I shared a surprised glance.

“We think it’s an inside job.” he insinuated. “Which means its one of you.”

“It’s probably Eileen.” I suggested. “She has the most opportunity.”

“Oh right.” she complained. “What motive do I have? It’s probably Andrea.”

“What?” Andrea cried. “MOM!”

Mom can usually be counted upon to adjudicate, especially when Dad is being ‘this way.’ She has put up with him for years and often has to defend his behavior in front of strangers or almost-strangers. Sometimes, like tonight, she participates.

“We think it’s Teddy.” she smiles and nods towards me. “Because he lives out of state. You can’t trust those people.”

As the sun set over Huntley that fine September evening, we argued over the stolen silverware, Matt and Dad calculating the estimated worth at roughly 6 cents per missing piece. At one point, Matt offered to pay the damn 18 cents if it meant his own father would quit insinuating that a thieving child of his has unresolved silverware issues.

of course, we started accusing Dad of accusing us to hide his own petty thefts.

This is how we spend dinner many nights. Arguing over, well, nothing. (Two of the three missing pieces of silverware were later found embedded between couch cushions.)
A very popular topic for evening bickering is who has to wash and dry dishes after dinner. Mom and Dad have no dishwasher (other than Dad) and Mom likes to make big meals, so there’s always a lot of scuzzy dishes. Each of us argue why we should be excused from dishes that night, sore knees, big day at work tomorrow, etc. Very popular is insisting that “I’ll be part of the Management Team (management does no actual work other other than to criticize how everyone else dries the dishes).

A new excuse came out in September.

“I’m an Alpha,” Dad protested. “I can’t be part of the Omega work.”

He had worked out this logic that if you help put together the dinner, help with preparations, you’re an Alpha. You’re excused. We railed against him for this trumped up division of labor and argued that anyone, anyone can be an Omega.

“You got the dinner plates out of the cabinet and put them on the table.” Eileen retorted. “That’s barely any work!”

“No, no,” Dad protests, “You can’t define an Alpha by the quantity of work he does, but rather it’s more of his nature. He just can’t wash dishes.”

Eileen herself has found a sure-fire way to get out of doing the dishes. She always looks at her fingernails and then volunteers. “I’ll wash,” she’ll say. “My fingernails are dirty and could use a good soak.”

Eileen is instantly off the hook; everyone else volunteers to wash instead.

The interesting thing is that most of the time we all willingly do the dishes together anyway. We like to.

But this is how we play.

Last week I went to Huntley for Thanksgiving and for more of this insanity:  the arguing over dishes, trumped up accusations, the faux bickering and strange competitions we invent as games. On the post-turkey slump on Thanksgiving night, I openly accused my three siblings of stealing my car keys when I couldn’t find them on the kitchen counter.

“I know this is awkward, especially on the night of Thanksgiving.” I apologize. “But one of you is a thief.”

“Have you looked upstairs in that mess you made in our room?” Matt asked lazily.

“No.”

“So your first response - instead of looking for your keys - is to accuse us.” He says.

“Like I said, I’m sorry to have to accuse all three of you when only one of you is a stealing klepto…”

“Nice.” Eileen remarked. “Happy Thanksgiving to you too. Could you get me a diet Pepsi, since you’re already up.”

No one is too upset by my accusations. It’s not like I haven’t accused them of something like this before.

The keys are eventually found under my duffle bag which I insist is further proof the thief got nervous and returned them in an unlikely spot.This raises another chorus of protests and accusations back at me of a certain level of paranoia.

It’s not all accusations and bickering. Over the weekend, Andrea and I challenged each other to timed sudoku competitions and during one such game, we bent the rules to include a two-pronged goal:  solve the sudoku first AND solve the most puzzles on Wheel of Fortune. We would figure out where the 3s were supposed to go, then yell out missing words on the TV screen, following a byzantine collection of rules our family has developed for claiming victory for puzzle solving on The Wheel.

Andrea won.

When I left Huntley to drive back to Minnesota, I hugged my Mom and brother goodbye. Mom was already worried about the weather and extracted my promise to call. During this goodbying, Dad’s voice rang out from the kitchen. “Mom, be sure to frisk him for silverware!”

Ah, family.

Rex is going to arrive any minute.

I’m totally nervous. I feel like I’m getting ready for a date, a first date with someone I shouldn’t be dating…maybe a little bit of a bad boy vibe. Yet I’m sure nothing sexual will happen between us because his wife Rhonda wants him home by 8:00 p.m. Plus, he’s bringing his two-year-old son.

Rex is my new mechanic now, and he just finished overhauling the entire engine. I’m so nervous; I can’t wait to see my car again! Rex said he bringing engine pictures of what he fixed. He was also genuinely sorry he didn’t have time to put together a PowerPoint slide show like he intended. He was running late.

I feel a dirty whore.

I’m cheating on my neighborhood mechanics - Best Garage Ever - with Rex, and I feel like a dirty little car slut.

The first time I took my metallic-blue Subaru Impreza to the Best Garage Ever (at that time just the Neighborhood Garage), it was because the dealership wanted to charge me $500 for a broken exhaust pipe. I asked these new guys to give me a second opinion but was explicitly clear TO NOT FIX ANYTHING until we talked because I needed to decide if I wanted to do the work at this time.

“Sure, sure.” they told me.

Their casual tone made me nervous.

When they called a few hours later, the anonymous voice over the phone said, “Well, we just went ahead and fixed it.”

Instantly I fumed, ready to unleash this stream of swears that I hoped conveyed a combination of professional, decent person, and really fucking pissed off.

He spoke before I did.

“We just welded the tail pipe back onto the muffler. Took us 10 minutes, tops. We’re thinking $7.50. Cool?”

“Cool.” I said, swallowing my anger quickly. “Yeah, that’s okay.”
Best Garage Ever.

One of the best features is that while there, I never feel talked down to.

(ASIDE:  as awkward as the phrasing of that previous sentence may be, it perfectly conveys the slightly ignorant vulnerability and weakness I often feel when visiting a mechanic. I always fear they’re going to talk down to me and then I’ll feel stupid about the car I love. Folks at the Best Garage Ever are often very kind, exceedingly friendly in a way that does not suggest they read it on page 4 of the employee manual, but rather they just are this way because they are. I do not feel stupid with them.)

A few weeks ago I took my beautiful car to the Best Garage Ever to get an estimate. Something was rattling and with 125,000 miles on Old Blue, I figured my faithful steed deserved a little TLC. James from the Best Garage Ever called me and his voice was strange…careful. Measured.

“Mr. Manning? We should talk about your car. Can we do that?”

I was a little struck by his odd tone, almost suggesting I sit down in a chair.

James gently explained the timing belt issue, the other issue that was an estimated $800 fix earlier in the summer, and how they discovered both the left and right head gasket was leaking, a common Subaru problem. I listened in dumb wonder and as he cautiously dog-piled the misery, and suddenly I recognized his tone:  surgeon. Life support.

Already, the little imaginary dollar bills were swimming through my brain, piling up like a bad Refinance-Your-Mortgage TV ad.

I finally understood.

“It’s almost not worth fixing!” I cried in despair.

“I’m not saying that.” James said calmly. “Let’s just talk about this…”

“I love this car!” I yelled into the phone.

“I know you do.” he said softly. “I know.”

I was suddenly speechless. James walked me through the remaining items that would need to be fixed. Gradually he totaled the estimate for me while I held the phone limply. My car! My beautiful new car!

(Car was actually purchased in 1999. But it was my first new car ever.)

My new car!

With a grand total landing unhappily around $3,700, I squirmed. Any investment I put into this beautiful car has already been returned four times over. And I’m not worried about blue book value. But I also don’t want to die in this car - I was thinking it would be nice to die the day before a nasty trip to the dentist, to you know, save me some pain. But not screeching as the car flips into a concrete highway divider and the last thing I see is a broken timing belt on the windshield. I don’t want to die like that, being mocked by a timing belt.

I am not a rich man, either. Did I really want to invest further in Old Blue? Could it be new car time?

My brother Matt went through a battle like this, investing big cash in his old car. I decided to call him; he’d understand!

Matt listened to my mostly irrational despair/pouting and he talked to me as if he were a high school career counselor, helping me see options and consider second opinions, and how it’s even possible to find another car…another -

No.

But Matt’s counsel reminded me to get another opinion.

I consulted Rex, a former coworker from Allen Interactions, a man who worked as a mechanic for 15 years before deciding, “Hey, I like e-learning.” He was at Allen years before me and survived for another full year after me. He also worked part-time for Allen in his last years because he was pursuing life as a welder artist/inventor. He’s always eagerly explaining to me a thing he has invented and if he can just get it into one of Target’s suppliers’ shows…

Rex agreed with the Best Garage Ever:  all that work needed to be done and possibly more.

“And probably…” he began.

Don’t say it. I thought to myself. Don’t say THAT.

“…the clutch.” Rex advised. “As long as the engine’s out of the car, you may as well.”

Dammit. He said it.

Rex agreed to fix my new car, Old Blue, for roughly half of what The Best Garage Ever would have charged. In fact, Rex came up with the nickname Old Blue.

You see how I’m torn.

I love Rex, love his crazy inventor vibe that radiates out of him when he talks about creative projects. When he talks about his family, then he’s quiet, calm. He smiles this wonderful, goofy smile when he talks about his life with Rhonda and the kids.

But it’s the Best Garage Ever!

And I cheated on them!

But it was with Rex, who was my comical arch-nemesis at Allen Interactions. One year, he tried for months to get everyone at work to give me a nickname from Porkies II.  “Hey Boog!” he’d chirp loudly every morning, day after day. Thankfully it never caught on, but for months Rex never gave up.

“Morning, Boog! How was your drive?”

I heard it daily.

So is it wrong to cheat on your beloved neighborhood garage if the new guy who fixes your car is pleasantly sadistic and a good Dad?

Yup, I’m a dirty car whore.

I cheated.

This torrid affair with Rex began when I called him to vent my car woes and ask him if he would look at my car for a second opinion. I told him the ugly truth:  how many thing were wrong, how expensive it would be to fix.

“You’re thinking about putting down that beautiful Subaru?” he gasped into the phone. “I love your car! It’s got another 100,00 miles on it!”

“I know!” I cried.

Last night in the middle of our tri-hosted Halloween party, my friend Dave approached me very seriously - food poisoning serious - and murmured, “Do you have anything like a little kitten sweatshirt? A small jacket like that?”

My first thought was that he really did not understand my costume.

“A kitten sweatshirt?”

And then, he suddenly seemed to understand what he just asked me. “Not, like, you would have a kitten sweatshirt exactly. It doesn’t have to be a sweatshirt.”

Dave remained serious.

The fact that his Halloween costume portrayed him as a surgeon really actually lent him this strange credibility. I mean, he looked at me sharp-eyed, intensely as if ready to convey bad news.

“What’s up?” I asked quietly.

Dave explained that a cat had been trying to get inside the party for the last half hour, climbing up on my front window boxes and pawing the storm windows as if to say, “Look this is embarrassing, but I’m a neighbor and I seem to have locked myself out…”

Dave had asked for a bowl a few minutes prior; I assumed it was for the sushi that Tony Stark and Pepper Pots rolled themselves before coming to the party. (Evan really did look eerily like Tony stark, facial hair landscaping impeccably crisp. He glowed with this sexual energy and charisma that was typical of him and yet shining brighter.)

But apparently, Dave was getting water for the cat. And food. Figured the cat might like some sushi rolls and also the turkey. The cat had indeed eaten heartily, but seemed to want more than food. Maybe bedding? The cat found the right emissary. Dave is one of those men who has forged a great friendship with his dog:  Dave loves Jack the dog; Jack loves Dave. Their lifelong friendship has changed them both. Dave is built of that kind of kindness.

“How about a towel?” I ask. “Will that do?”

Dave and I rushed off to rescue the Halloween kitten.

“I can’t believe you asked me if I had a kitten sweatshirt. What the fuck is a kitten sweatshirt anyway?”

“Quiet.” Dave says. “Focus on the cat.”

Oh yes, I am now a man blogging about a cat. I recognize the absurdity of, you know, cat blogging, but this is how the story unfolds, so we’ll all just have to accept things and get through this:  I am blogging about a cat experience.

(Just think, 15 years ago, where would I have published a long and tedious story about a stray cat? Thank god for the internet.)

After debating a few choice locations and deciding under the hydrangea bush, Dave fluffed a little bed out of the big towel and moved the water dish and food dish closer. We wondered together where she had come from, and I remembered how someone earlier had complimented me on my cat. Again, I thought it was a misguided reference to my costume. (I did one of those concept costumes and nobody really got it until I explained it and then they said, “Oh yeah! Right. Sure, sure. Now I see it.”)

The cat appeared suddenly and was a youngish, soft-eyed, calico cat. The little fuzzball immediately vibed this very friendly and hip, “Hey. Cool. I like you.”

She nibbled on the hors-devours Dave brought her, gazing around the yard as if appreciating the autumn decorations:  golden crunchy leaves, the deepening green of November grass, the coolness of the earth on Halloween weekend.

One of the serial killers joined us on the front steps and explained how he felt her teats a few minutes ago and he now believed she was a young mother, this cat. Again, he also had a certain credibility. He had stabbed the Trix rabbit right between its big beaming eyes with an ice pick. His box of Corn Chex was assaulted by a plastic gun and there was an exit wound on the other side of the box through the daily recommended nutritional values.

I turned Dave to me and whisper loud enough for all to hear, “This is how serial killers begin, with neighborhood cats.”

My friend the serial killer talked about the cat he had once loved, Ms. Marple, and how he missed her quiet company in his life. This serial killer friend is actually quite loving, he’s gentle and sweet so his costume is deliciously the opposite of his normal persona. We talked about loving animals for a minute and we speculated on her neighborhood origins, the nearness of her possible kittens.

We went back to the party.
Ten minutes later, the cat scurried into the house when someone opened the door. She ran through the guests, leaving everyone cooing, this living embodiment of all of our combined love and good cheer. She was the party ambassador. I could almost envision her nodding, “Getting enough to drink? To eat? Cool, cool.”

The house was bursting with people I love.

Best friends.

Lifelong friends.

Newer friends.

Brand new friends.

There was this joy about our gathering, something that rocked orange and golden and happily green. We giggled and ate Stephen’s Mac and cheese, constructed with so much cheese and eggs that a single mouthful absolutely bent the plastic fork. I made a chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting and green coconut grass. I broke up Hershey Bars and made adorable little tombstones, even rounding off the ends of some so that there was a variety amongst the dead stones.

Most sugar-licious graveyard you have ever tasted.

My basement had been transformed into a suburban dungeon. Stephen and I ghoulishly designed a basement of horrors (and coolers with beer and a dessert table made from sawhorses and a shiny wooden door covered in dead leaves). Even this minute, almost 24 hours later, I’m reluctant to go down there and do laundry tonight. It’s a 1920s cement, exposed-beam basement with copper pipes stringing the ceiling and swinging single bulb lighting. Grey cement floor. Enormous wood pile. Metal doo-dads hanging on the wall like possible props from Pulp Fiction. It’s pretty clean, generally, but it’s also got a good creep factor.

I do love Halloween.

Throughout the party night, our mysterious cat repeatedly entered and exited the party, charming everyone. Another guest set up a food and water station outside the back door. I mocked Dave regularly for his request for a ‘kitten sweatshirt.’

“They exist!” Dave protested weakly.

This cat stopped its silent wanderings only for ONE person - the one person in the room who was violently allergic. Don. She nestled comfortably on his big chest. Don was costumed as a major league baseball player and had a wooden bat curled in the meaty paw attached to his giant, thick arms but he watched the cat helplessly and repeatedly muttered, “Every time. Every damn time.”

Don is a smart IT guy, but I sometimes think he should do hospice work. If I were dying and fearing what happened next, I think I would like to be in Don’s arms. He is a very gentle, very strong man. I think I would relax upon hearing his reassuring warm voice rasping as he said, “Don’t worry about it. Seriously.” It would not be a bad way to go, all that strength and gentleness swirling around in him, holding you tight at the very end whispering in his thick Italian brogue.
Don and Dave are together; they are my lifelong friends.

They brought a gift bag to the party, with Pumpkin peeps, a favorite wine, and a cheerful threat. A month ago I dumped National Treasure in their kitchen freezer, buried in the ice bin. It’s a thing between us. Sometimes they threaten me, sometimes I threaten me. The night they discovered National Treasure, Don muttered curses in the background while Dave chided me for breaking into their home and dishonoring Jack.

“He needs to feel he’s guarding the home.” Dave chided me. “You’re killing his self esteem by just walking in like that.”
“I gave him a cookie, a treat.” I protested back then. “I played with him a while and told him I was sorry about having to wear that cone around his head.”

“So you humiliated him.” Dave said flatly. “Well that’s great. You can’t humiliate Jack like that. He needs to feel he’s protecting us.”

“Tell Edmond he’s dead to us.” I heard Don mutter loudly in the background. “Tell him I spit on the ground. Tell him, Dave.”

At the Halloween party, Don and Dave threatened me:  National Treasure was hidden in my house again while I was downstairs putting eyeballs in the lemonade.

Meanwhile, Ann, our wonderful Iowa co-host, blazed a fire into existence and we brainstormed names for the cat.

The first suggestion was “Edmond’s cat,” which I tried to point out politely yet vehemently, was NOT a great name for a cat because I’m not really cat people. Let’s not get ideas, here. It was a stray.

I suggested a name I had fancied.

“Hatchet. What do you think of Hatchet?”

My friends politely avoided eye contact with me. Ann and Dave, who had also just met for the very first time, shared meaningful glances. Then Stephen, who also met Ann for the very first time, shared meaningful glances with Ann. All these people know me too well. They weren’t threatened or frightened of me, they were just saying with they eyeballs, ‘See how it is? See how he is? You understand, I know you do.’

I tried to move beyond the awkwardness and continued to extoll the virtues of this adorable name. I mean, Hatchet - found on Halloween? It’s adorable.
“So you’re a zombie, right?” someone else said cautiously. “Do zombies eat cats? Is that like a zombie thing?”

Hatchet continued to stroll through the party. She just wanted to be involved. Someone humane in the room suggested “Mr. Snuggles” or something like that and I nodded and said, “Yeah that’s good too, but how about Hatchet?”

All our guests had ideas about Hatchet and throughout the night I chatted with all of them. There were actually two cereal killer costumes, both with knives murdering various GE and Post products, giving all of us an evening of saying, “how tacky of you two to wear the same gown” type comments. A zombie banker who could make his head wounds open and close like speaking lips, a chef who beamed with his lady love (wise witch) as if he were all favored guests in his restaurant. We all nodded at him gratefully as if he had deep fried the turkey himself in my backyard.

Oh man, that deep fried turkey was good.

I enjoyed a beautiful, heart-opening conversation with a skeleton-masked friend. I took him to my bedroom to show him a sketch important to me. He took off his big mask and as we sat in the soft glow of my stained glass lampshade, we reflected on growth and pain and how growing love into your life demands these sacrifices sometimes. He talked about his weaknesses and I talked about mine.

Every now and then I’d catch the skull mask out of the corner of my eye and feel like I was hanging out with Hamlet, but the cooler Hamlet where he shrugs and says, “Well, what the fuck are you gonna do?” and then he goes out and gets the job done.

I barely spoke to my friend Brett last night. He freaked me out quite a bit, a 70s’ British rock star whose hair could have been used in a Rapunzel costume as well. I barely said hello to this powerful, important friend but I was aware of him all night, like a sparkling light on the other side of the room, someone I love so much and yet we were busy glowing in different circles that night, that’s all. I felt that way about a friend in Bunny Ears, another in jangling leggings, who insisted on a Renaissance speech. Awesome.

Before the party, I called Zombie Banker to pick up some extra ice and he refused to speak in anything but moans so I had to say to him, “Moan twice if you’re going to pick up some ice for me.”

“MMMMMMMmmmmm.”

“Uuuuugggggh.”

“Great.” I said. “Thanks man, I’ll give you a few bucks when you get here.”

A wall street vampire discussed the upcoming election expertly. He had big golden bling in the shape of dollar bills and a Wall Street sign, protesting self-centered CEOs who are sucking our futures dry. I felt a certain affinity for him and the zombie banker all night, because I myself wore a ripped-to-shreds business suit, zombie makeup and a giant red, plummeting Dow Jones index report spray painted across my shoulders an abdomen.

My costume was The Economy.

“Oh…riiiiiiiiight,” I heard over and over.

Two people very seriously offered to adopt Hatchet if he were still around on Sunday. Hatchet had endeared himself to everyone. I myself had begun to think, ‘Yeah, right. Like I’d let you take Hatchet away from me.’

Honestly, I’m not a cat person. But things happen on Halloween.

We put on costumes and reveal little bits of our wonderful shadow selves. It’s not that my friend secretly wants to be a serial killer. Nope. It’s about touching something different and scary, wonderful and liberating. Acknowledging that we have fear. Choosing to let our darkness become light instead of being a slave to it. I could be a surgeon. I could be dangerous and threatening. I have chosen in this life to be me. But this costume is to remind you that I am also other things.

Carl Jung said, “I’d rather be whole than good.”

I think part of that wholeness is celebrating Halloween.

Scary basements, brave hero costumes, and wonderful, sensual energy. We let out the part of us inside that needs to stroll through shadowy candle light every now and then, like a fuzzy Halloween cat. A fuzzy purple feather pimp coat and a silver sparkle wig. The Pulp Fiction action guy, Harry Potter and the Grim Reaper. We celebrate our weird quirks that make us surreal and wonderful. We’ve all got our own stories, our own crazy days blended together with ordinary things like taking out the trash and recycling the day after a party.

It’s Sunday.
I haven’t seen Hatchet all day.

I put out more water.

I spent the better part of Sunday strolling around the neighborhood and along Minihaha creek. This day was stunning, a perfect golden afternoon for long walks. I photographed leaves that seemed to be on fire and I took raspberry jam to the neighbor who grows giant sunflowers, introducing myself and thanking her for the gift of her crazy, overgrown yard.

She blushed and offered me perennials.

I confessed that I thought it would be weird if I showed up one day with raspberry jam because you know, it’s weird. She laughed and put her hand on my arm to say, “It’s okay. We spirited kind of people recognize each other so we can be weird with each other. It’s alright.”

But no Hatchet anywhere in the neighborhood or around the house.

I’m not surprised, I guess.

Things happen on Halloween when people of spirit gather together and love their own strangeness.