Tag: story

Reflections of Past Reflections

Posted on December 31, 2012December 31, 2012 by Paul In The Buff

My life is at a cross-roads right now. Sudden changes and continuing stress; there have been so many reasons for me doubt myself these past few months, but somehow I don't. I am more confident than ever.

But confidence doesn't mean I stop trying to improve myself. A big part of that self-improvement is a lot of self-reflection. Deep introspective self-reflection.

These things haven't changed. As I look back on my past writings, I see similar thoughts, questions, and even the self-doubt tempered with confidence that I see today. Back then my road was no less complicated but seemingly a lot more simple. Doesn't the past always seem like it was easier than the present? The good-old days. Yet, there is no going back and if you really think about it, today is as easy as it will ever be again.

This entry was originally written July 1, 2007.

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Eight Miles a Minute for Months at a Time....

Seems like yesterday… but it was long ago…

Sitting on my flight home, I consider what a friend just told me today.

“You’re a mystery.”

I have trouble with that observation, only because I consider myself so simple.

As I sip my drink I consider this: Do others really view me as mysterious? I wonder. I guess without asking directly I won’t know. But my introspective, I don’t look at getting to know me as the metaphorical equivalent of “peeling an onion.” More like, peeling an orange. You can get past the surface pretty quickly with little effort and without destroying what is inside.

That is, if one cares to.

But it’s not going to peel itself – it does require a little effort.

Lately I’ve been regressing. I’ve been finding myself reflecting on life. The things I’ve done and people I’ve known. My experiences and upbringing. My successes and failures, and there have been many of both… but I feel, more of the former.

My failures don’t bother me. Success and failure are intrinsically related – not as diametric opposites as one might casually observe. To find success in life, to find happiness, one must take risks. And with every risk taken there is a better than average chance that risk will ultimately lead to failure. In that regard, success and failure can be one in the same. But those that risk nothing, do they ever find success and happiness at all? Do they even have a chance to? Can success be defined without first knowing the pain of failure?

No, as I see it, the opposite of success is mediocrity and banality.

And I refuse to be mediocre; I can accept my failures and learn from them but I refuse to be boring.

I reflect on those past failures and successes when I have time to think; Sitting on a plane, driving in a car, working alone with nothing else to occupy my mind as I plow through routine tasks. In times of reflection I tend to work my psyche back into my youth. People do this, often without conscious effort they’ll surround themselves with things that they take comfort in – comfort foods, places they went in their youth, old friends.

I rediscover music I listened to when I was young. It’s just my way of going back and finding things that help me feel what I felt then. To reconnect and reconsider experiences past. It is completely conscious, but I find new meaning in the old as I move along in life.

“I remember what she said to me; how she swore that it never would end.
I remember how she held me oh so tight…I wish I didn’t know now what I didn’t know then.”

Isn’t it funny how our minds work? How things trigger our memories?

We all grow up different – no one’s experiences are the same and everything shapes who we are. It’s often during our development we ask the question, “who am I?” Then we spend years, sometimes decades trying to find that answer. Trying to define ourselves and not let others or society define us. And do we ever succeed? Can we ever define ourselves in our own mind or is who we are always a matter of how others perceive us? How many people ever truly get past not worrying at all about what other people think? I don’t think most of us do, and even through I’m older and more confident as a person I still care. I care about people, and their feelings, and how I affect them, and what they think of me. This I feel, many times, is my largest undoing in terms of intimate relationships.

Seems ironic, doesn’t it? The fact that I care about people and my friends actually leads to more difficulty in getting closer to the people that I’m interested in.

Should I expand on that? It might seem a dull dissertation. I’ll let it rest for now unless the question is posed to me.

We get older and life presses on. I’ve met a lot of young people along my way who express many of the same troubles I had when I was their age. My advice to them always is, nothing will seem as devastating in 10 years as it seems to you today. Keep your friends by your side – those are the truly important relationships. And if they don’t mature at the same pace you do and you drift apart, that’s ok too. You can’t recapture everything you’ve enjoyed in the past, but you will find new people and experiences to enjoy as you grow.

I’ve changed a lot as a person since my youth. My upbringing and the experiences of my adolescence would have seemed to have me destined to be in therapy as an adult. But I’ve managed to avoid it... to now at least.

A lot of learning experiences and a lot of pain reshaped me in a hurry as I moved from adolescence to adulthood. I still might need that leather couch, but right now I have something better – a non-stop life that leaves me little time to think about my troubles.

“The years rolled slowly past, and I found myself alone.
Surrounded by strangers I thought were my friends,
I found myself further and further from my home.

I guess I lost my way. There were oh so many roads.
I was living to run and running to live.
Never worrying about paying or even how much I owed.”

An almost perfect summation of my life as I get older I think. This song was always one of my favorites growing up.

My current life is busy – almost too busy to bear at times. I do find refuge in making new friends.

On this most recent trip I got to meet a couple of on-line friends and we had a great time. The conversation flowed and we laughed a lot. This is the best thing about being on the road. Experiencing people and places – learning, always learning. I try my best to listen and absorb what others can offer.

But now I’m flying home, possibly never to return to this area. I wonder if I will ever share an evening with these new found friends again.

It becomes a saddening thought to me – to have people that I enjoy in my life physically so briefly. Virtual conversations, text and emotes are no replacement for sharing a meal, making eye contact and exchanging smiles with people you find and enjoy. This has happened with every chance meeting on the road so far – never a repeat visit.

But tomorrow is another day, another trip, another opportunity to make new friends in new places. Every day has become an adventure – I enjoy it and at the same time it troubles me. I love to travel and at the same time, I miss the comforts of home. I love to have new experiences every day and at the same time I look to something more stable to make my life feel more complete.

Yet, it hasn’t happened. Not that none of it isn’t there. I just haven’t found what I feel to be real satisfaction in my life.

Maybe I’m one of those restless souls that just has to keep moving – a drifter, always searching for something more but never finding what I truly want or perhaps when it comes down to it, I don’t even know what I want.

“Eight miles a minute for months at a time, breaking all the rules that we’d bent.
I find myself searching... searching for shelter again and again…”

I guess in a way it comes back to how I define myself, and like many others I sense all too often I define myself based on how others feel about me. I want to be appreciated, loved, desired… not hollow words, but physical demonstrations by people I feel the same about. And my life is all but void of just that.

Words are easy – to truly open up to a person and give that person everything you have is difficult. It is all too familiar a concept to me. Knowing you’re putting yourself out there, putting your heart on the line. And when it’s not returned in kind it can leave an emotional vacancy that might possibly never be satisfied.

Been there… look, my T-shirt says so.

Perhaps I do ask for too much. Maybe I’m just not emotionally aware enough to realize what is there is good – better than good, and better than I can expect.

Maybe I’m too hard to please and I’ll never be satisfied with anything anyone can offer me in terms of love, desire and passion.

Maybe I haven’t found the right person yet.

And maybe I never will.

Maybe the right person is before my eyes and I just don’t see it.

And maybe I already have met her and let her slip away in my clueless, bumbling way.

“I have so much more to think about… deadlines and commitments.
What to leave in… and what to leave out.”

So I guess my question becomes am I on the right path to find what makes me happy? Do we ever really know?

Whatever path I’m on, I’m going to make the best of it until it ends.

Some Conversations

Posted on December 28, 2012 by Paul In The Buff

T: I'm creating the web pages I need in my car on paper as if that will change the fact I'm losing two hours here.

P: I can help with web stuff, you know?

T: You can't because it's in my back end. Only one can be in at a time.

P: I'm going to do my best to read that in the context of our current conversation....

P: Nope. Failing and giggling uncontrollably. Thank you.

T: LOL!

Thoughts Of Australia

Posted on December 24, 2012December 24, 2012 by Paul In The Buff

It was December of 2007. My life was changing in drastic ways, and I was on my way to Australia. These are the thoughts and experiences surrounding making that trip...

Originally written December 2, 2007

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Another rushed morning preparing for travel.

This usually happens on a Monday morning, or even a Tuesday. Rarely ever a Saturday, but today’s trip is unlike any other I’ve taken.

Australia.

The other side of the world; my first journey off of North America. It is a trip I anticipated back in the summer. The project plan started in March. I received my assignment in April and they projected I would have to make this trip in late June. Back then, I was excited to go. To get away from the things bothering me here.

Those months seem so long ago.

Since then, so much has changed. And although I still want to go to Australia and make a trip to a place I’ve never been to, and perhaps would never get to go to… the timing couldn’t be worse.

I start my morning by skipping the bathroom routine – no teeth brushing, no shaving… just go to the fridge and pour a glass of orange juice to get things going. I know I’m not going to have the time to brew coffee and no one here will do it for me, so I skip it. I can get some with lunch when I land in Charlotte.

My real-estate agent calls at 8:15. He didn’t realize the bank wanted a fully executed contract yesterday, so we have to do it today before I leave – 11 days from now might be too late. Trying to make a real estate transaction happen while bounding around the country... never in town… and make it happen in half the time of a normal transaction.

It has already been stressful, timing makes it doubly so.

I work in my office, preparing things for my extended absence. I have to get FedEx shipments together – 11 days from now for them will be too late. I send my last few emails, back up the accounting software. The contractor noticed a mistake on yesterday’s invoice and he needs me to fix it before I leave. I print out a new invoice and email it to him.

Everything is packed and ready to go except my laptop. My agent arrives at 8:45 – the contract is printed but he needs to review it. A thirteen page contract, sign and initial every page as we review it. There are four copies to sign and date. I only have an hour, and he wants to do this thoroughly. The clock is ticking, I need to shower and get dressed, I need to finish a few things in my office… time is valuable.

We finish the contract… he looks up at me with a smile and says, “Australia? Wow. I have to admit, I’m a bit envious.”

“It’s just a business trip. I’ll make the most of it but, it’s just another trip to me…”

“No, it’s not.” He says, “some people might say, yeah, no big deal, you’re just getting on a plane and you’re there… but a trip that far, there is so much more to it than that. It takes a certain amount of bravery to undertake that kind of trip. I don’t know if I could do it.”

“If you can get past the boredom of two full days on airplanes, you can do it.”

“I suppose. Try to enjoy some of your time there, and take lots of pictures! Don’t worry about the house… I’ll make sure everything goes smooth.”

“Thanks,” I replied, “I really do appreciate how you’ve gone the extra mile on this one.”

“My pleasure. Safe journeys, and we’ll finalize things when you get back.”

He left. Now it’s 9:40, I have to leave for the airport at 10:15 and I know my exit from the house won’t be quick or easy.

I rush through a shower and I’m ready to go. My laptop goes in my bag, my MP3 player in an outside pocket and I carry everything from my office downstairs.

I can hear the kids playing on the other side of the house… I round them up for hugs. My daughter, the eldest of the three, comes to me with tears in her eyes.

“I don’t want you to go…” she says while bravely trying to hold back her tears.

“Awww... I know… I don’t want to leave you for so long either, but this is part of what I do…”

“I know…” she replies. She has been missing me more and more these days. School has been rough for her this year. The boys are getting older and more mischievous. She gets less attention at home, and growing up, has more responsibilities. My travel has become more stressful to her.

I took a morning off a few weeks ago before driving to a job in Syracuse to join her in a father-daughter breakfast at her school. We had a wonderful time just sitting and enjoying the morning. Then they announced it was time for the dads to go so the kids could get to class… as I left I turned to look at her, and she was crying. I couldn’t leave her. I went back in, took her hand and walked her to class. I spent some extra time in her classroom just, hanging out with her.

She might be seven now, but she’s still my baby.

After a ninth or tenth round of hugs and kisses, I loaded up my truck and was on my way to the airport.

It still felt like crisp morning air outside. Winter is settling into the north… the air was very brisk. As I drove east on the highway to the airport snow began to fall. Fluffy, winter clouds were beginning to cover the icy blue sky and the bright sun was dimming overhead.

My truck skated on the slushy, wet road. Being the first snowfall of the year, I started wondering if this might actually cause some delays in my travel today.

I got to the airport and checked in the old fashioned way – talking to an actual person. The kiosk didn’t seem to comprehend I had to go to another country.

She handed me the boarding passes and then sent me to the United counter to get a seat assignment and a Visa for the flight to Sydney. Apparently Visa’s aren’t a common thing at the Buffalo airport – they had quite a bit of difficulty generating one. As I stood there waiting for my Visa to process I began to think of the travel that lies ahead. I began to think of what I am leaving behind. I began to think of the return trip and how things are going to change when I get back. I began to think about responsibilities and the things I need to do, and business, and a little girl with tears in her eyes….

…and my stomach filled with butterflies. Tears welled in my eyes.

I began to question, for the first time…. Can I make this trip?

It’s not an option. I have to. This is something I try to impress upon my children daily. Sometimes we don’t have the option – we have to be brave and do… whatever it is we need to.

I want everyone in my life to understand… this isn’t just a job. This… what I do… it is what I have to do.

As the United agent worked on my Visa, I helped her passengers queuing in line figure out the check-in kiosks.

Sometimes I am really baffled at how helpless people are with even the simplest technology.

She finished my Visa, returned my boarding pass with seat assignment and passport, and I was off. It was getting to be boarding time for my first flight by now; a two-hour layover in Charlotte. A rare flight to Charlotte on a regional jet. Only on Saturdays, a slow travel day, would they not fill a large jet to Charlotte.

The flight departed Buffalo at 11:55. I hadn’t had a chance for breakfast or lunch, so the first bag of trail-mix was a great option.

The flight was smooth and uneventful. Even the climb out of Buffalo, through the wind and snow was relatively turbulence free.

With not much to do but sit and think on the flight, a song popped into my head. Lyrics that speak to the moment.

“Sailing away on a crest of a wave, it’s like magic.
Oh, rolling and riding, and Slipping and sliding, it’s magic.”

The trip had officially begun. With a sense of concern, but at the same time, a sense of relief… knowing it’s underway.

I stared out the window at the passing clouds and the mountains below. The mountains that a few months ago were lush and bright green are now brown and dark green with traces of a rusty-red… winter is even moving into the south. The landscape below passes by and I think of you. I know when I’m supposed to see you again, but will that be when I see you again?

I hope…

…I have had hope in my heart since that time in Marietta when we got to know each other so well.

I hoped this day would come. But it’s not here yet. And the first plans made, didn’t transpire as we had hoped. Ten days… how much could happen in ten days…

“Taking a dive, ‘cause you can’t help but slide, floating downstream…
So let her go, don’t start spoiling the show, it’s a bad scene…
And you… and your sweet desire… ”

The plane lands in Charlotte. It’s 1:47 PM.

I exit the plane and head through the concourse to the main terminal, dragging my rolling bag behind, but the heavy thoughts weighing on me. I slowly walk through the airport looking at the people passing by. Sometimes I wonder… what are they facing in their lives? What secrets do their eyes hide?

I sit down at the quiet, mostly empty restaurant at the airport. I’ve been here so many times before… once, even with you. I remember that trip… sharing nachos and smiling at each other. Knowing we would soon have to go separate ways, but enjoying the last moments of our time together on that trip.

I wonder if the future will change how much we appreciate that time… the time pressed and forced into our schedules, just to spend time together.

I take my MP3 player out and plug in the headset. I remove the memory card in it and replace it with the card I loaded last night while chatting with you. You sent me music… without me listening to it first – I know if it’s something you enjoy I will enjoy it too. I loaded it onto the MP3 player as your unintentional surprise to me. Music I’ve never listened to… and it would surprise me when it is played in the midst of music I know and am familiar with.

I put on the ear-buds and played the first song… it was one of yours, but not one of the new ones. A Bjork song you had me listen to a long time ago. I love it… it’s so you, and you had said it reminds you of me. I listened to it as the waitress came to my table.

“Hola! How are you today? Would you like a margarita or perhaps a cold beer today?”

“No, thank you. How about a coffee please?”

“Cream and sugar?”

“No thanks, just black is fine…”

I sat and listened to the song. I thought about when you had sent it to me… what you had said about it. I listened to the lyrics as if listening to them for the first time. Taking them in – understanding what the song was saying.

I sipped my coffee. I took some Tylenol. I closed my eyes, leaned back on the bench seat and thought about the pictures you sent me the night before.

I logged onto MSN on my phone while having lunch and we chatted. We planned. We discussed the future. A future only days away, but it feels like it will be so long… so far away. With so much ahead of me in the next week.

We spoke on the phone as I boarded my next flight. San Francisco. An area I’ve been to before but an airport I’ve never flown to.

It was so nice to hear your voice and your laughter. I’ve missed it. The past weeks have been so full of stress for you… I needed you to find your laughter. I needed to help you find it…. I felt like I failed you when I couldn’t do that.

As the closed the flight we said goodbye. The plane pushed back from the gate, as I leaned my head on the wall and dozed off…

It’s a six hour flight from Charlotte… and I had already been traveling tired and ready for sleep.

They offered a meal for first class – three-cheese calzone or seafood lasagna. I love seafood, but, when offered to me on an airplane I think of the movie… “Airplane!”

“Our survival depends on finding a passenger who cannot only fly and land this plane, but who also didn’t eat the fish.”

I never eat fish on an airplane.

“What did you serve for dinner tonight?”

“Well, the passengers had their choice of either steak or fish…”

“Ah, yes, I remember now... I had the lasagna.”

Reminds me of a cross-country flight to San Diego when I was young… back in the ‘80s when they served a meal to everyone on a flight. Flying with my family, we had the choice between a chicken dish, fish or vegetable lasagna.

My mother ordered the chicken. My father ordered the fish. I ordered the lasagna.

My mother said, “You know, it’s not like the lasagna I make at home…”

I said, “Yeah, but you’re going to eat a meat or fish on an airplane? Are ya nuts?”

“Good point…” she said.

We all survived the flight anyway.

The attendant covering first class wasn’t shy about serving the drinks. Before the in-flight movie even started, I was on my third.

The movie was “Unaccompanied Minor.” Not a masterpiece of American cinematography, but a cute family movie about kids traveling alone stranded in an airport at Christmas. I doubt anyone produced it hoping to win an Oscar, but if a couple million families shelled out $10 a person to go see it, I’ve sure they cleared a profit.

The fourth and fifth drinks blurred past as I listened to the music you gave me… and the sky outside turned from bright blue, to red to dark…

You asked.. “I wonder what kind of interesting people you’ll meet on your flight to Sydney…”

I will soon find out.

I guess the answer to that question was, no one.

I sat alone. Which suited me just fine because it allowed me the chance to sleep. A fourteen hour flight after traveling nine hours just to get to that flight… have to get at least eight hours of shut-eye in there somewhere.

Well, probably more than that. They served dinner on the flight and I read the first few pages of one of the books I brought with me… the first in flight movie was “Transformers.”

I looked up at the screen once in a while, but opted to listen to the music you sent me instead. The movies just weren’t going to keep my attention anyway.

The dinner was decent. Airline food, but not entirely bad. At least the portions were right – maybe the airlines have something there. Smaller portions, lower cost. We don’t need to eat as much as can fit on a twelve-inch plate and then go for seconds. We’d be better off as a society if we could moderate just that one thing…

I fell asleep about halfway through “Transformers.” Woke up briefly during the second movie, which I didn’t recognize. Next time I woke up, “Ratatouie” was on… I quickly fell back to sleep.

The next time I woke up they were showing “Live Map” on the screen… only 3:48 left in the flight. Still, a long time. But at least that confirmed I actually did get a good amount of sleep.

As I type this out, they’re beginning breakfast service. “The Santa Clause…” two. .or three… or how many of these crappy movies have they made? Anyway, that is what is on the screen now. Yeah, I’m typing and listening to music and not watching it. A shocking turn of events, I realize. Please sit, catch your breath… then I can go on.

Movies rarely catch my interest anymore. It seems as though Hollywood is content to put out movie after movie with low quality acting, poor editing and plots as thin as cheap nylon stockings, but not nearly as sexy when the right person is wearing them.

Less than an hour now to land in Sydney… then a connecting flight on Virgin Blue to Melbourne.

One thing I can say, for the distance and size of this plane, this has been one of the rockiest flights I’ve had in quite some time. These things happen I guess.

Customs should be interesting… I hope they don’t seize my trail mix.

Well, the bastards seized my trail mix. Damn them! Damn them all to hell I say, as I shake a fist in their direction.

Customs was interesting. Customs took over an hour, after presenting my ID and entry card to about thirty five different customs agents, I was finally allowed to enter the country, which basically meant I got to go do a different area of the airport…

Even more interesting is the airport itself. Domestic transfer to Virgin Blue was a 20 minute bus ride to the other side of the airport. And the coffee shop doesn’t double-vent their cup lids so it’s almost like you have to suck the coffee out of it.

I feel like I’m two again.

Now I’m just waiting on my flight to Melbourne… I’m so excited to be getting on yet another plane….

Getting used to the accent here will take some time. They’re making announcements in the airport that I really, have, no, clue what they’re saying. It’s English, for sure, but my simpleton brain can’t wrap around it yet. But that’s ok, the lady at the coffee stand asked me for my name four times before I finally had to spell it for her.

And really, it’s pretty common, even for here.

The airport has a Krispy Kreme, a McDonalds, a Subway… also has a toy store called “Kaboom.” Is that an appropriate name for a store in an airport? So there are some familiar things, but mostly, it’s a much different world.

But, I could get used to this….

The Philly Dread

Posted on December 17, 2012 by Paul In The Buff

Originally written on June 3, 2007

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If I’m going to Brussels I have to re-ticket. Montreal too.

I’m only going to Ft. Lauderdale, so no re-booking. Yet.

The remains of a tropical depression are coming up the coast. They haven’t exactly arrived in the Northeast yet, but the Philly airport closed just in case it suddenly speeds up and arrives.

Typical.

So I sit here on an airplane at the gate in New York, on infinite ground-hold going to Philly. I really wish they would just close that airport and just burn it to the ground. Philadelphia’s airport serves no purpose except to delay flights all over the East coast. If the plane is going to Philly or coming from Philly, count on it not being on time. At all. Ever.

They just announced my flight should take off at 8:00PM. My connection is supposed to take off at 8:25PM.

This plane is fast, I doubt it is that fast. Fortunately my connection, obviously, is also out of Philly and it should also be just as delayed. Question is, do I arrive at my hotel in Miami at 3AM at this point?

That would make for a pretty suck-ass Monday.

They really need to just serve drinks on the house when shit like this happens. We got offered some water a half an hour ago. I said unless there’s some scotch in there someplace, no thanks.

Well, now they just said no one is going to make a connection. Apparently they’re letting some planes into the Philadelphia party, but my plane isn’t on the guest list.

Back to ticketing. We’ll try this again in the morning….

Broken Wings

Posted on December 13, 2012January 17, 2018 by Paul In The Buff

Originally written on June 7, 2007.

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It does amaze me sometimes.

Apparently I have a look about me that people feel comfortable confiding in me some of the deepest, most personal information about themselves – even if I have no idea who they are.

Case in point; flying out of Fort Lauderdale airport this afternoon, standing in line for security, the TSA agent directed everyone that there is actually 2 lines to form (absolutely nothing indicated this the way the security queue was arranged) and he suggested people move to the left line which was shorter.

The woman standing in front of me turned to me as if to ask, “is he serious?”

Seeing the look on her face, I shrugged a bit and said, “Hey, if the man says there’s two lines there must be two lines somewhere.”

She smiled a little and we both moved to the shorter line.

“So, where are you going?” she asked in a very soft voice.

“Buffalo. You?”

“Washington.”

“The state or…”

“No, no.. Washington D.C.” said knowing the question I was going to ask. “It’s very exciting for me. Today is the first day of my life.”

“Oh, really? How is that?” I asked.

“Well…” she hesitated as she looked up at me finally making eye contact, “..I’m starting a new job… and… just… getting the hell away from here.”

“So you didn’t enjoy Fort Lauderdale? How long have you lived here?”

“Four years. And no, I thought this was the place I was going to make it, but…” tears welled in her eyes as she reached the security tables. “So what do I have to do? Put everything metal in the bin?”

“No, just any laptops, camcorders or anything liquid.” I suggested to her as we reached the security table. “Anything liquid has to be in a ziplock… so if you need to pee, you have to pee into the bag.”

She laughed a little. Tears diffused. I was thankful, but I knew what was coming.

“This has just been an unbelievable day. This morning I was in court, my ex had a restraining order placed against me. Can you believe that? And his wife, who I never even met and didn’t know he had… filled one too. Said I threatened her life.”

“Wow,” I responded, simply hoping she would not tell me anything more.

“Yeah, so now I get to fly away and start my life over. Three years I spent with him. I loved him so much and all he did was lie to me and use me.”

Tearfully she walked through the metal detector. I pushed her and my belongings to the conveyor belt and followed behind her.

As she put on her shoes she asked if I needed help with my belongings.

“Thanks, that’s kind to offer, but really I do this almost every day. I’m kind of a pro at it.”

I was hoping such a statement would take the conversation to a new course, but she returned right to telling me every detail of her life. How her ex is a budding rock star (aren’t we all?) and he never told her he was married until right before he stopped talking to her. Then he called to tell her he was leaving his wife but needed her to stay away for a bit.

A couple weeks later – BAM – she got served papers to appear in court.

Suspicious, as always, and knowing a lot of women are indeed crazy - especially a woman who would spill all this to a total stranger – I kept a bit of distance, but lent an ear to listen.

Trying to get her off of the subject and stop her from a complete, tearful breakdown right in the airport, I asked some other seemingly mundane questions.

“So, you’re not from Ft Lauderdale originally… where did you live before this?”

“Oh.. France.”

“France? Are you originally from France?”

“No, I’m from Romania.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed that either…” she indeed spoke English flawlessly with no discernible accent. “So what made you decide to move to America?”

“I wanted to make something of myself.” She responded, “No one in my family has ever made anything of themselves. I came here to do that. I was doing pretty good, working for a real-estate agency and doing database programming for them. It was easy but they never figured it out. So after I did it, they begged me to stay, but I had to leave. I really had to leave. I had to get out of here. I can get a new job and live somewhere else, but what do I do about a broken heart?”

She started sobbing again. I handed her a napkin from the kiosk pantry on the concourse.

“Thank you… I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be telling you all this… I just.. don’t have anyone here. I moved here alone. I have no one to turn to.”

I can only sigh… and here’s me… what word is stamped on my forehead? Sap? Sucker? Too nice of a person to just walk away?

So I listened… and offered her the basics… time will heal your heart… everything will work out… you need to move on… but of course I was torn. Torn between my empathy to want to help someone in obvious pain – and my desire to get her to just stop telling me all this. I didn’t need to hear it. How about, “So, how is the weather up north?” or, “What brings you to Florida?” But she just kept unloading… until her cell phone rang. She paused to answer it. She was happy to hear the voice on the other end but the conversation was too brief for me to escape.

“That was the lady I’m moving in with. Such a nice family. They had a room for rent so I’m going to stay with them. They actually call me to check on me to find out how I am. It’s such a relief when I feel so alone all the time.”

“Aw, that is sweet. Glad you were able to find someone to rely on.”

“Yes, it is a blessing.”

“Well, I’m sure everything will turn out ok in the end. It just might take time to all work out.”

“Will you pray for me?”

What a question to ask someone. Who shall I pray to? I’ll pray to the airline that they don’t crash our planes today. The look I gave her as she asked that probably indicated to her that I don’t.. really.. pray.

“I’ll keep you in my thoughts.” I said.

“Thank you… so, you travel a lot? What do you do?”

“Well, I own my own company. Right now I’m working on a contract for a vendor doing installations in hospitals for them.”

“Wow, that’s cool. I want to own my own company someday.”

“It’s an ambitious endeavor, I wish you luck.”

“Do you ever travel out of the country?”

“Not yet, but I have a job coming up in Australia and in the fall I might have to go to Saudi Arabia.”

“Australia! I’ve always wanted to go there!”

“Yes, I’m looking forward to it.”

I attempted to cut the conversation off as they announced boarding for my flight. But she again continued with how she has had plans for this and that, and if the restraining orders stick it could jeopardize her citizenship process. And then began telling me how they drink wine as a meal in France….

Thank goodness for last calls.

Not that I’m not empathetic to her plight – honestly I am. She got used by someone who didn’t treat her well, but maybe there was something else behind it, too. Regardless, there are a lot of people in this world who are simply out for themselves.

Maybe I’m becoming one of them.

But I still listen when people need someone to talk to. After all, we all have broken wings sometimes.

A Story About Goldsboro…

Posted on December 10, 2012March 10, 2013 by Paul In The Buff

Originally written on April 27, 2007

Originally titled, "A Productive Drunk is the Bane of Moralists."

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I told Etch it needed to be a night worthy of writing a book about.

Maybe it wasn’t book worthy – but at least a chapter.

A quick two day job in another remote, small town in the south for me. Jorge was supposed to be my support but he had difficulties at his job on the west coast so Etch was dispatched at the last minute to ensure we had the people and time to complete the job. It’s becoming more complicated as the technologies advance and a second person was needed.

And, well, who better to join me at a job site.

“You know, I was supposed to be off today!” Etch bellowed as he walked in the room Thursday morning.

“Yeah, I know. I didn’t ask for you – I would have been fine on my own.” I boasted.

“Right, sure you would have been. They knew you’d screw it up, so they sent in the DH.” Etch shot back.

The job went as expected. A couple hours after Etch arrived, so did Jorge. The three of us worked until the evening hours to get the job done – obviously not a one person job as I contended earlier. But with the increased time to complete the job came increased tedium and fatigue. Especially for my colleagues; the one grabbing a 6AM flight, the other fighting 9 hours of travel and jet-lag.

A night of excess was needed, but this small town didn’t seem to offer too many options.

We started with a late dinner – quick appetizers and few glasses of wine. The three of us shared jokes and had fun with our waitress. She was an amazingly cute Mexican girl but by her obvious southern drawl, not from Mexico. Jorge, suffering from his jet-lag insisted he had enough for the night. I think he figured he would have trouble keeping up with Etch and I, and decided an early retirement for the evening would be best for all of us.

We dropped Jorge off at the hotel. We took Etch’s rental car, but I drove. He grabbed the GPS and started reviewing our options.

“Looks like if we want strippers, Sid’s Playground? Not far from here.”

“Sounds ok to me, but I wouldn’t plan on staying.” I resoponded.

“Why not?”

“You know my feelings about those places. The strippers are great, but I want to take them all home with me. And I can’t. So, why bother?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Etch was obviously in the mood for strippers. “Whatever, just enjoy it and shut up.”

I did. But even Etch couldn’t possibly know what was in store for us at a strip club in this tiny southern town.

We arrived at Sid’s. Looked the same as most other strip clubs. The neon lights outside flashed “GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS – EXOTIC DANCERS.” The tinted windows and doors didn’t reveal anything of what was inside, so we sauntered in casually.

We were met at the door by a large white man with a shaved head, goatee and many piercings. He looked ominous, even sitting behind a desk in a booth, demanding ID’s and a $10 cover charge.

That’s pretty standard for such a place. What is a little out of the norm from our experience is to be frisked and walked through a metal detector after paying said cover.

That should have been our first clue. Really, it was. But how rude would it have been to walk out after paying our cover without even entering the establishment? We followed their procedure – emptying out pockets, walking through the metal detector, then being both frisked and examined with a wand.

This was not your normal strip club.

After processing we walked into the bar area. The “stage” was a railed runway – not elevated as per the norm. One solitary “dancer” was dancing… kind of. About a dozen patrons lined the bar of the tiny room; many of them obviously local gang members wearing colors and insignia. A few other dancers were hanging out at the end of the bar next to a wall made up entirely of large audio speakers. Behind the stage, a DJ was working. The music was so loud we could barely order drinks.

A couple of dancers stood up and left us bar stools to sit at. We ordered a couple beers – served in the can with ice on the sides of the cans. We sat on the empty bar stools, clanked our beer cans together with a silent toast and simply glared at each other with that “I know exactly what you’re thinking” look.

Simultaneously we tilted our drinks back. I leaned towards Etch, “Not exactly what you had in mind, is it?”

“No dude. Definitely not.”

“One beer and gone?”

“Yeah. But, don’t drink it so fast that we look like we’re scared, ok?”

I chuckled a little. “Yeah, no problem man. It’s almost frozen anyway.”

“Aww man, the beer is too cold to drink! We have to go!” he joked.

I chuckled again, “No, no. We’ll just say we left the iron on…”

Etch laughed a little. “Yeah, that’s it. So what do we say when we leave after only been here for five minutes.”

“We just say we were here looking for ‘someone’ and they didn’t show up. I’m sure it’s probably pretty normal with the drug deals that go on here.”

Etch laughed. “Sounds good.”

We slowly drank our beers. I finished mine and urged Etch to finish his so we could move on to something more interesting, and less life threatening.

We strolled out, past a dancer who asked, “Leaving so soon?”

“Yeah,” I said, “I think I left the iron on.”

Etch laughed from behind me and we kept walking – the ominous gate-keeper glaring at us, knowing we didn’t spend the small fortune required to make such a place profitable.

We got back into the car and grabbed the GPS.

“What now?” Etch demanded.

“Whatever, it can only get better from here, right?”

I was wrong. Very wrong.

We drove 10 miles further north to find a place called “Double D’s,” assuming it would be another fine entertainment establishment. The drive took us into a neighboring town. Even smaller than where we started – and even more desolate and run down.

The dilapidated buildings lined the street. Double D’s was not in the location the GPS claimed it to be – in fact, nothing was there at all. Most of the business looked like they were closed for good. The town police station was dark, in an old town square store-front. Around the corner, two police cruisers lurked dark and silent.

“Hey, look, “ I said, “it’s Barney Fife and Roscoe P. Coltrane’s cars.”

Etch just laughed. “Good call with the Barney Fife reference. Mayberry… this place probably used to be Mayberry.”

The comment and evening’s activities thus-far must have struck a chord with him. He began to talk about how things were better in our days as youths.

“We didn’t have anyplace with metal detectors. You could go out side and play – there was not such thing as sitting for hours in front of video-games or computers. We had good, modern convenience but life still forced us to be independent and do things for ourselves.”

It’s true. Growing up in the ‘70s and ‘80s, things were a lot different.

We drove on, heading back toward the direction of our hotel. I grabbed the GPS and looked for someplace different. He pulled into a gas station to use the restroom and I found a place closer to our hotel and programmed the GPS to lead us there.

“Where are we going?” Etch asked when he got back into the car.

“Just drive. It can’t get worse.”

Well, it didn’t get worse, but it didn’t get any better.

We drove to the bar I found – the parking lot was empty with the exception of one or two cars. The place looked like it was built from a tool-shed and then expanded by adding on another tool-shed. We walked to the front and peered in through the window before walking in. We saw two elderly men sitting at the bar, smoking. Not exactly the kind of place we were looking for.

We moved on.

“This is ridiculous.” Etch bemoaned. “I’m just going to stop and ask someone for a suggestion.”

We pulled into a Hess station - empty except for a young person tending to the counter. I say young person because from the outside, I would have sworn he was a she – but when Etch returned from asking for directions, he claimed she was a he.

“NO!” I said

“Yeah, you want to go in there and see for yourself?”

“Not really, it doesn’t mean anything to my life.” I settled for not knowing for sure. Not exactly one of the great mysteries eluding man kind anyway. “So what did he suggest?” I asked.

“Well, he said a good place to go is Ham’s.”

“Ham’s? Are you kidding, that’s right next to our hotel! We could have walked there!”

“I know! Who would have thought?”

It was now 11:40PM when we walked into Ham’s and the quiet town was getting quieter. There were about a dozen people in the bar area; a couple still waiting on a take-out order seated at the side of the bar.

“Last call is at midnight,” the bartender called to us as we sat down, “what do you guys want?”

“A bud and a bud light?” Etch responded. “Oh, and how about a couple Jagerbombs.”

I sighed. “You and your fucking Jagerbombs.” I said as I glared at him.

Etch just laughed. “Hey, you liked them that night in Florida.”

“No I didn’t. You ordered them and I drank.”

“Well, and you will again.” He said as the bartender dropped drinks in front of us.

We toasted with our Jagerbombs and drank them as quickly as we could.

“Ugh, this stuff is nasty. Red Bull tastes like cough medicine.” I said as I flipped my glass upside-down on the bar.

“Yeah, but that cough medicine will keep you going for a couple more hours. Better than coffee.” Etch explained. I didn’t need the explanation; I just needed beer to get the taste gone away.

Etch asked the bartender if there are some decent places to go after last call at Ham’s. He suggested a bar, not too far away but last-last call is 2AM. We finished our drinks and headed back to the car. A quick run down the main road found us at a night-club that was definitely more active than anywhere we’ve been all night.

We walked in to find it was a private club. The woman at the front desk explained they will let us in as guests with ID. The cover was reasonable at $3.

We entered the bar and it had a loud, dance-club type atmosphere. Young crowd, many looking like they should still have a curfew, let alone be allowed into such a place. We approached the bar and I bought the first round of beers. The music was so loud, conversation wasn’t possible without screaming at each other from close proximity, so we wandered towards the dance floor to check out the patrons.

Interesting place. Seems like it was more of what we were looking for right along, but we didn’t find it until 90 minutes before last call. I went to the restroom – when I returned Etch had moved from where he was standing, so I wandered a bit to check out other areas of the bar. Making eye contact with the people, but I felt they knew I was a stranger to their area. My beer was running low, so I returned to the bar to get another. Etch was there doing the same.

“And two Jagerbombs.” He shouted to the very petite and attractive bartender.

I looked at him with disdain. “You suck, you know that?” I shouted back at him. Of course, I drank it. But that didn’t make it better.

“Hey, we don’t have a lot of time to drink, so let’s get it done!” he shouted back at me after we both dropped our shot glasses on the bar.

“But why always the Jager? Why not something tastier?”

“What, you’d rather do those fru-fru mellon fruity shots?”

“No, those are gross. Why not some Crown or something?”

“Man, you’ve got more expensive tastes than I do. Always with your wine at dinner, and Crown shots. That’s just not my style.”

“It’s not expensive tastes, “ I countered. “It’s just having… some taste!”

He laughed and started looking around the bar. I felt I may have offended him, but I don’t think he offends easily. He looked to our right and saw a dart board on the wall.

“Want to shoot some darts?”

“Sure.” I’m always game for darts. But we discovered once to the board that there were only two darts there to use, and one was broken.

“Nice.” Etch said, “I’ll tell you what, we each shoot two darts – closest to the bull gets to pick our next shots.”

That was pretty much all the motivation I needed to not have to drink anymore Jagerbombs. I drained a bull with my first attempt.

“You fucker!” Etch shouted. “You’re good at this, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.” I said coyly. “Crown?”

“Yeah, yeah…” he replied. We walked to the bar and I ordered a couple shots of Crown. Smooth, compared to the taste left behind of the Jagerbombs.

We dropped the shot glasses on the bar and started talking to the bartender. She was slim, and wearing a tied up shirt, showing off everything from the bottom of her breasts to her hips.

“We’re closing up in a little while,” she told us, “can I get you anything else?”

“I need to get the taste of that Crown shot gone.” Etch said, “What now?”

“I don’t know… how about a blue motherfucker?”

Etch grinned – he seemed surprised that I would remember that.

“Yeah! Ask her if she knows that one.”

I motioned the bartender back toward us. “Do you know the drink called a blue motherfucker?”

“No,” she replied, “but we have one called a purple motherfucker.”

I looked at Etch. “Purple, blue, it’s all a shade of blue to me.” I said. I turned back to the bartender and began to ask “What is in….” but then my lack of good judgment kicked in, “..you know what, just get us two of those.”

Etch and I looked around the bar, not paying attention, it seemed almost instant that she was dropping the shots in front of us.

“You want one for yourself?” Etch asked her.

“No, I have to go home to my kids, I don’t want to be drinking.” She replied.

We raised our glasses in a toast to life, and drank the shots down.

After a couple more rounds, the night wound down and we headed back to our hotel.

“We got started too late, we should have found that place right after we got out of work.” Etch said as we walked into the hotel lobby.

I pressed the elevator button, “Yeah, what can you do? Next time… we’ll get it right.”

Random Grumblings

Posted on November 29, 2012 by Paul In The Buff

Originally written April 20, 2007

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First class isn’t what it used to be. Just give me a can and a handful of bottles and leave me be.

And why is a “double” at an airport bar is now 24 oz of soda with a minimal amount of the good stuff, instead of a double-shot of the good stuff in a regular rock glass with a splash of soda? These people need to go to bartender school. If I wanted to drink soda until my bladder burst, I would just order soda.

Is it any wonder why people just drink from the bottle in a paper bag?

No stupid people tricks this week; a damn, crying shame. I look forward to the constant challenge to my own intellect people pose. That, and the laughs. People at their stupidest – inadvertent humor – can’t be beat. Hence the success of shows like, “America’s Funniest Home Videos.” How many times can you see the “dad” getting whacked in the genitals by the piñata bat, and yet people still make the same mistakes.

And I still laugh every time.

Partially because I hope someone that dumb is made sterile by the mistake and Darwin will once again reign triumphant… *sigh… we have defeated Darwin, haven’t we?

This week had many good points. Getting together with a gaggle of mates that I know from on-line on Tuesday night was one of them. But I was tired, and a little out of sorts. I’m sure some of them probably thought.. “gawd, what a bore this guy is in person…” but it was a long week, even by Tuesday. Although I did enjoy myself, and it’s always great to meet and make new friends, share a meal, share some good times. Next time, I’ll do it right.

I’m finding that traveling to do work this routine more than 3 days a week is becoming a complete drag. Flying out on Sunday, getting home after midnight on Saturday with little in-between other than 14 hour days of dealing with… this stuff. Burnout is around the corner.

Got together with an old friend in Memphis this week. We were supposed to go horse-back riding today, but our schedules didn’t pan out. Next time. We did get to enjoy a good Memphis Barbeque and had a good time Thursday night.

My colleague Jorge and I enjoyed ourselves on Beale Street in Memphis too.

Well, we could have enjoyed it more if not for the... people… we decided to meet out.

Clients of sorts – out celebrating one of their birthdays. Let’s just say, in my view the night left much to be desired from that aspect.

But Beale was a cool place. Next time I return to Memphis – it’s PUB CRAWL TIME!

People Kill Me

Posted on November 24, 2012 by Paul In The Buff

Originally written on April 16, 2007

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I wish I had something interesting to talk about here, but I don’t. The week of travel started out with some incredibly bad weather in the North East, and of course, for the first time in a long time my first trip was within the North East.

Getting to Boston on Sunday night was an adventure. Fly out of Boston through DC tonight was even more fun. If you never flown on a plane going into 45-60mph winds, I do suggest you try it someday. It’s worth the price of a ticket.

Not that I want to make it sound like I’m full of complaints this week – not the case at all. I’ve spent some time reconnecting with people lately and having fun with friends. Business has been as crazy as ever, busy and new opportunities cropping up, so that’s always good.

Last week I ran into two relatively humorous situations at gas stations of all places. For some reason, car rental companies want you to return it with a full tank; like gas is expensive or something. Go figure. Anyway, at a gas station just outside the Raleigh Airport I pulled into a pump right behind another vehicle. When I exited my car, I noticed the vehicle in front of me, a new Pirrus Hybrid, was unoccupied, the gas port was open, the cap was dangling and there was gas pouring out of it.

Curious scene.

I lit a cigarette and tossed the match…

No! Just kidding. But shortly, a woman came out of the station with an employee following. I couldn’t hear their conversation, but the woman was gesticulating wildly and the man was nodding at her, and then turned and walked away.

The woman, obviously frustrated started grabbing paper towels from the pump and mopping up the gas running down the side of her car. Well, needless to say, curiosity got the better of me so I had to investigate.

I approached the woman and asked what happened.

She said, “The pump clicked off when it hit full, but when I pulled the nozzle out, gas just started pouring out of the car.”

Interesting. Obviously it was over-filled. The pump... screwed her. It happens. Nothing is perfect.

Anyway, the woman was obviously distressed. She explained, “This is my husband’s car. I just don’t know what to do. The gas won’t stop coming out!”

I looked at gas streaming down the side of the car. Quite a sizable puddle had collected on the ground in front of the pump and the gas was flowing on the ground away from the car.

I explained my observation to her, “Well, it over-filled, and judging by where the puddle is collecting the ground isn’t level and the car is tilted, so it’s going to run out until it levels off.”

“But what can I do???” she begged.

I looked her right in the face and said, “Have you considered… putting the cap on? After all, that’s its job. To cap the gas port.”

“But what if it creates too much pressure in there and the car explodes???”

The look on my face at that concern must have told her I now truly believed her to be an idiot.

“The cap is vented. If it wasn’t, you’d vapor lock the gas flow and stall out all the time.”

She looked at me curiously.

“But I’m afraid it will explode,” she said, “and my husband is going to be so angry.”

That was enough for me.

“Put the cap on and drive home. Trust me, it will be fine.”

“But…” she started

“Oh, drive home on electric power then.” (yes, I was being sarcastic.)

I walked away. I had to get to a flight, and really, I think she might still be at the pump debating this.

My next big adventure, (don’t call me Pee-Wee Herman) was at a very, very rural station outside Charlotte. This is a quicker story, but perhaps even funnier.

I pulled into the station, and at the pump in front of me was an unoccupied mini-van. An Olds Silhouette or Pontiac Transport, something along those lines. I had to drive to Charlotte from Atlanta so my car was on fumes when I got there, and despite being in the Home of NASCAR, you can’t dump 20 gallons of fuel in the car in 5 seconds, so I had a good wait in front of me before the tank was topped off.

As I filled up, I saw an older and quite obese woman come walking… sort of… out to the van. I’m not the thinnest person in the world, but when you see someone this large, like passing a train-wreck, you’re almost compelled to watch…

She walked up to her van and started poking at the gas-port door, trying to solve the mystery of “how do you open this thing.” It obviously wasn’t her vehicle. After not being able to figure it out from the outside, she smartly went inside to look for a release latch. She found it and the door popped open. She “walked” back to the gas port and worked on taking off the cap.

She seemed to be struggling a bit with it, as if it were somehow too tight. Then she turned the cap and…