Yellowriter

 

The ability to see life through the eyes of someone else, inevitably, will change the way one lives. The oldest adage that comes to mind is the one that talks about ancient Indians walking a mile in the moccasins of another. Our parents told us about the starving children in Africa, and that made us guilty and thankful enough to eat our broccoli. A poem was written about a man who felt disadvantaged because he had no shoes. You know the rest; he met a man who had no feet. I once heard a sermon by the great Dr. John MacArthur, the key point being that perspective is the key in all of human suffering. It is a difficult point of view to argue against.

My wife likes to drive. She not only believes that the road is filled with people who have no business behind the wheel, but also believes that she is one of the world’s finest motorists. It is because of this fact, that I spend a great deal of time in the passenger seat. I took tremendous pride when, after a couple of years of marriage, my better half had the confidence to sleep while I was at the wheel. Even while we were dating I could see her pushing the imaginary brake pedal from the shotgun position. I suppose that she dislikes my sightseeing. I learned to drive a stick shift at the tender age of thirteen and driving has always bored me to a certain degree. I have never been in an accident, but as my spouse will tell you, I’ve caused many.

It was on one of these excursions that my youngest daughter saw the graveyard salute. It was never meant for public consummation, but now the story must be written. Our family rarely gets over to the East Side of town. We were completing some errands on a Saturday on that part of the city and happened to drive past the cemetery. We have always called them graveyards and I have trouble applying the proper term. As we drove by I leaned forward in my seat and saluted. My youngest daughter, Lauren, saw the two-second hand motion and asked about it.

Robert Louis Brown moved into our neighborhood in the fourth grade. Most people would use age as a measurement, but we never had to. The “we” I refer to was the Indian Sage Gang. Indian Sage Road was the street most of us lived on. There were seven friends the same age, in the same grade, living within a two-block area. I, naturally, was the ringleader so it was my job to check out the new guy and determine if he was cool enough to join our group.

His first day at school was a memorable one. He was tall and thin with brown hair and steel blue eyes. I sat by him in the cafeteria and asked where he had come from. He had come from the outer East Side and that made him a cowboy or a goat roper. He joked that he wanted to be a country singer when he grew up and bragged that his father drove heavy equipment for the C.A. Rasmussen Construction Company. I was just about to invite him down for an afternoon game of football when the ruckus broke out. Mike, an ill-tempered bully, had heard that Bob was from Eastside School and started to tease the newcomer.

The stage was set. Bob and Mike were going to fight after school in the desert. The rumors circulated and by three o’clock a hundred kids had gathered to see what the lean east ender was made of. Mike had challenged and tormented many, but I had never remembered seeing him dish out a punch. Bob didn’t blink; he marched right up to Mike and leaned in.

“Throw the first punch,” Bob ordered, his blue eyes blazing. Mike retreated a step and looked nervously about. Bob gave an eerie grin, revealing a grim reaper type of countenance.

“No, you,” Mike chirped, his voice two octaves higher than usual.

This went on back and forth until Bob gave Mike a mighty shove in the chest. Bob’s grin was more menacing and still, the eyes did not blink.

To Mike’s credit, he backed down. No punches were thrown and Bob invited us all over to play pool in his garage. Robert L. Brown had passed the test and friendships for life had been started.

We shared many adventures before Bob and two of the others in the group joined the Air Force. Bob had gotten it in his head to become a fireman. One night his girlfriend, Diane, came into the gas station I worked at and asked me to drive her to the airport. I explained to her that if Bob wanted her in Anchorage, Alaska, he would have asked her. She cried and declared her love for him and the romantic in me won out. It was a good thing that it was payday because I had gas money. Bob wasn’t happy at first, but years later I kidded him about it.

“Your two kids wouldn’t be here if I didn’t take her to the airport,” I teased. Bob had married Diane and they had a daughter, Deniece, and a son, Daniel.

After the service Bob got hired by the Los Angeles County Fire Department and became one of their best paramedics. He had blossomed into a tremendous athlete with softball being his forte’. He led the L.A. County team to the fireman’s World Series and they won the championship for years on end. He played on the gang’s team as well and though many others tried to coax him away, he remained loyal to his old crew from Indian Sage.

Bob matured into a handsome man and he didn’t handle it well. I stopped in to see him at his fire station one night with uniform samples in my hand. I wanted to get his opinion on pinstripes. As I approached the station I saw a couple embracing and kissing in the darkness. As I got closer I saw my friend caressing a voluptuous blonde. I told him I’d wait inside and when he came in he warned me not to say a word. We picked a softball uniform and I left, the image of the shapely woman etched on my brain.

Fives years later Bob told me that he had A.L.S., commonly known as Lou Gerhig’s disease. He told me that there was no cure and that he would be dead in less than five years. The process took its toll and a group of fireman worked diligently to make his home wheel chair friendly. I went out to see him often and one visit sticks out in my memory. I was getting divorced and feeling like life was unfair. Instead of going out to eat during a courtroom lunch break I went to Bob and complained about how I was getting ripped off. He listened to me spew and then smiled.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“Let me get this straight. You are complaining to me?”

“I guess I am.”

“Want to trade places?”

“No. Man, I’m sorry…”I began, but he cut me off with a bit of philosophy.

“Wade, no matter how bad it gets you’re still in the game,” he whispered.

I became a confidante for Diane as Bob’s condition worsened. She watched him go from a wheel chair, to an electronic speech machine (when he lost the power to speak) and then to his sickbed.

“Wade, the worst is that woman,”

“Woman?” I asked, seeing the blonde in the shadows of my mind.

“She called to tell me that if I ever got tired of taking care of him that she would take over!”

Diane cried. I held her and said nothing. There are no words of comfort for times like this.

If you don’t want someone to get your goat, then don’t let them know where you tied it up! Robert Louis Brown was a homophobe. I mean that he was extremely uncomfortable with any type of homosexual joking, unless he instigated it. The paramedic could dish it out, but he certainly could not take it. Sometimes, as kids, we would shout in our most feminine voices and dog pile on Bob, groping his breasts for effect. He hated this in the worst possible way, so boys being boys, we tormented him at every opportunity.

I think about this as I sit on the edge of his bed. It is a cool December day and Diane and others are sitting vigil. He wants to die at home. I survey his emaciated body, once a paragon of strength and athleticism. His eyes are closed, the blue fire extinguished by a coma. His once powerful limbs are like twigs covered in flesh. I speak quietly in his ear telling him what a good friend he has been. I stroke his greasy hair and muse silently how much he would have hated being touched by another man. But today, I a more than a man. Today I am his loyal friend on a mission to say goodbye one last time. Diane looks in and we both know it is her time. I kiss his forehead and tears run down my face. Moments later he drifts into eternity.

At the funeral I see a tall, blonde beauty, much grieved, who comes in late and leaves early. She sits in the back and buries her face in her handkerchief. She sits carefully out of Diane’s view and leaves before the benediction. Years later I would see the fire station mistress and reveal to her my friendship with the only man that she ever truly loved. She peppers me with questions as she cries telling me that Diane never deserved to have him. Yes, Bob, she is still in the game, but she is injured for the rest of her days.

Over the years I would salute as I passed the graveyard. There is another worthy of the salute that rests near Bob’s tomb, but that is another story. While speaking of graveyards and things of specters and other unexplained phenomenon, I would like to tell you about encountering a ghost.

It was at a minor league baseball game that I came face-to-face with the spirit. It was the night that our union at work went to the ballpark in force to have a barbecue and see a baseball game. One of my co-workers volunteered me for the frozen T-shirt race to be held between innings and I made a fool out of myself to the delight of my children. My wife had bought me a well-deserved beer and as I sat back in the cheap seats I saw an apparition.

He sauntered with a swagger like John Wayne. He was tall, and gaunt, with brown hair and blue eyes that looked like beacons. The twisted smile was the topper. I almost dropped my beer.

“Hey, Wade. Remember me?” the adult Daniel Brown asked. I stood and we hugged. Bob’s son wasn’t the least bit homophobic. We visited and got caught up on old times. I found Diane in the season’s ticket holder’s section and we renewed old friendships. It was good to see her smile. Daniel asked me to come and watch him play softball and I agreed.

The next evening my wife and I went to see the game. Daniel made a game saving play and helped his team score a victory in extra innings. Bob’s daughter, Deniece, is there and tells us she is pregnant for the third time. My wife plays Barbies with Bob’s grand daughter while I roll a ball back and forth to his one-year-old grandson. Diane is there, laughing and glorying in her grandkids. The night is warm and calm and so am I. Bob, a man loved by two women, had made his mark in a grand way, that through posterity, he was still in the game. As we go I receive hugs and kisses from Diane and Deniece. I savor the moment, holding Bob’s grandchildren in my arms, the grandchildren he would never know.

My wife drives and I dab my eyes on the trip home. The salute by the graveyard comes to mind. On my next pass I stop and look at the markers. Bob’s tombstone has a fire engine engraved on it. I realize that any problems that I have are simply a matter of perspective. I know that I am still in the game and I plan to make the most of it.