Henry

I met Henry in 1990 when we were assigned to be roommates at a company conference. I got to the room first and my unpacking involved putting my suitcase next to my bed. He arrived and we performed polite introductions and small talk while I watched him arrange his socks in one drawer and fold his tshirts into another. He didn't finish until he had ironed his wrinkle-free shirts and lined up his grooming supplies beside the sink.

"Oh great", I thought. "I get to spend the next four days with the most anal guy in the company." Four days later, we had formed a friendship that lasted 17 years. I'm still not sure why. He was 10 years older than me. He was serious about his job and had the company's mission statement memorized. He was a Vietnam vet and a former Nascar driver. He was a life long bachelor with an eye for pretty women.

And me? I was...well, I was none of those things. I think I forgot to pack socks on that trip.

He sounds like a serious guy but he was also a complete optimist. Kind of a "the sun will come up tomorrow" personality. He survived cancer. I watched him take a battery of pills and lather lotions on his body to help with the chemo or radiation. But he never complained and he always pointed out that he was blessed and that he was so much better off than most of the people on the planet.

Later, I switched companies and talked him into coming along. It was a good move for him and his talent and work ethic were recognized and he moved up the ladder into some high profile positions. I was thanked for bringing him into the company. A few years later, I made another career move and we started to lose touch. There was an occasional phone call but then 2 years went by while we forgot to talk at all.

If this is starting to sound like a eulogy, well, I suppose it is. It's been a year now since he left work early, wrote a note to his new wife and shot himself in the bathtub. I wanted to put some time between the news of his suicide and writing this. First, I wanted to understand it. I wanted to wrap my head around what happened and why. I wanted to find the answer to this problem.

But I've changed my mind.

I don't want to understand it. I don't want to know that he was always in pain and I never recognized it. I don't want to know what was in the note he left. I don't want to grasp how he could battle cancer so bravely and with out self pity and then take his own life after the battle was won. I don't want to find out that Henry could hate his new wife so much that he would make her carry the lifetime burden of what she saw in that bathroom. I don't want to think that I might have made a difference if I'd kept in touch. This is the second story I've written dealing with suicide and I don't want to realize that everybody is capable of it. I don't want to wrap my head around that kind of darkness.

I can accept that some things just are. Sometimes there are no answers.

I don't need to understand.

Cowardice at the Concert

A blizzard and a fifty car accident had me stuck 50 miles from home again. I was wondering who's sofa I'd end up on when my boss said she'd let me expense a room at Beaver Creek.

Cool! My frozen lemons just became lemonade! Deciding to take advantage of the spontaneous evening that God was handing me I splurged on a nice dinner and overheard people talking about the concert they were going to right by my hotel...Bob Marley and the Wailers.(Bob Marley couldn't make it). I'm not a big concert goer, but a "why not" urge had me handing over $40 for 2 hours of island sounds in a snow storm.

I don't go to many concerts because I'm never sure how to act at them and going byself was even more disconcerting. I might have been happy just closing my eyes and listening to the music, but if I was going to do that I might as well just be in my room listening to my ipod. So I tried to get into it and as the audience stood, I stood with them. I clapped and whooped with them. I didn't feel terribly alone because I saw a dozen other self concious men looking around for guidance on how to behave. But it was watching the women that was really worth the price of admission.

She caught my eye when I first sat down two seats away. We smiled and nodded at each other and looked back to the stage. When people rose and started dancing she removed her jacket and manuevered next to me, looking great in her tank and surprisingly tan for March.

I don't do bars or night clubs because I never mastered "the approach". Whatever physical signals women are sending out are a mystery to me. Apparently there are books, blogs, and videos on the subject but I'm sure I still couldn't figure it out. But she was definitely interested. She didn't need to dance on my lap to make her point. Her signals were strong and she might as well have handed me a card saying "Talk to me".

You can pull a muscle if you just jump into the game without warming up, so I started to internally practice a few good opening lines.

"Hi"
"Great concert"
"I'm Jim"
"Bob Marley's dead, you know"
"Having a good time?"
"You smell like pot."
"Why are you looking at me?"
"I've got a room next door"
"You look fantastic"
"Here, pull my finger!"

You've already seen the title of this story, so you know how it ends. I didn't end up using any of these lines, but if there are any good ones I'd hate to see them go to waste so please feel free to use them if you'd like. Instead, I spent a couple of songs screwing up my courage (and screwing up an opportunity) until the band took a break. She looked me in the eye on the way to the lobby and even touched my arm to get past. She may have rolled her eyes and shook her head but that could be my imagination punishing me.

Sighhhh...

20 minutes later I was in my room watching the Discovery channel in my underwear.

That's the end of my story. But as you know, I like to wrap up with some sort of moral...some sort of point I'm trying to make. Aesop, Jesus, and me....we all dig the parables and I can't let those two down so here's what I've got.....

Reach for the stars - He who hesitates is lost - Fortune befriends the bold - A faint heart never won a fair maiden - Men who try to do something and fail are better off than those who try nothing and succeed - All BULLSHIT!

The only point I'm trying to make is that they call it a "comfort zone" for a reason....It's comfortable.

....ok that's weak... but she was probably some sort of serial killer that targets bold men anyway.