It is a word that should mean something exciting. It is a word that says I’m searching the deep space within to find and deliver aha answers… in order to realign and reset. I need to cure my problems and become resilient… no more committing the same stupid mistakes, over and over.
My mistakes? My terrible judgements? To me, these are all too real and happen all too often. For years, I pounded my head against the wall, figuratively of course, trying to force lessons to stick. It seems nothing relatable ever comes and seeds itself into my brain.
I read all the greatest self-help books and listened to all the great gurus who sold their “proven methods,” but I lacked the personal gains and became broker in the process.
I would bet huge money I’m not the only one whose life seemed worse… chapter after chapter.
Forget about one’s worth to society… I’m worth less than a penny to myself. To me, it appeared all too obvious that I’m hanging on by a thread and that thread, well… like watching a murder mystery on TV, everything starts to unravel, and in my case, I’m the worst murderer in history… unable to even kill myself.
Something has got to change and change soon!
From a basic “no one knows me” appearance, I look like I’m all together. I dress well… not suits and such, but more so, casual clothes and shoes… maybe a pressed t-shirt, or a collar shirt for business… and/or a date. As for my truck, it is three years old, spotless, and serves its purpose…making that “together” thing appear real.
I’m sitting alone on a bench that overlooks the Pacific Ocean. While watching the waves pound the sand, for an instance, I wish to be the water that’s dragged back across the shore and out to sea.
Drag me out and teach me to fight for this life. Where is my desire to fight for the things I want?
My biggest question is… what do I want? I’m not sure. I continue to live a linear life that goes from one problem to the next. That alone keeps me busy, surviving by any means available. Now, here I am, wishing the ocean would swallow me up and solve my issues… solve them through death. Perhaps I’m tired of everything.
I’m not suicidal! I argued with myself. I need to better grasp what I believe will make me happy. Suicide should not be an option! I yelled within.
Think of better things, Frank. Tell yourself that tomorrow will be better. Somehow, something will come along, and you’ll win, you’ll be famous, and everyone will want to listen to you.
Listening to my aimless thoughts, I couldn’t help to wonder if perhaps I’m becoming schizophrenic. Though I don’t walk down the streets and argue with myself like a madman, a public spectacle, I do talk with myself all too often. Though I’m quite the loner, on occasion, I enjoy brief conversations with people who sit nearby on these benches… most are older folks. Some are out walking their dogs, and some are out for the fresh air. I guess when in your later years, 70 — 90s, and you’re still of sound mind, long walks are the workout of the day.
I sometimes think these old retirees live the perfect life. It appears, for the most part, their finances are in order enough to make their ends meet, yet they’re waiting for the grim reaper to offer a permanent vacation from breathing.
I also think they’re the luckiest generation. Though I’m sure some experienced rough patches in the society of their era, it seems they got to live a more harmonious life… before everything became so amped up and in your face. Now, they’re close to escaping the future of doom and gloom. I mean, with all the political bullshit of the day, the dividing of the country, of the world, a boiling-over point is due that they won’t endure. Regrettable as it may be, I will.
God, I envy them!
I walked down to the shore and sat above where the waves completed their attempt to devour the whole beach and would make another attempt a moment or two later.
A glance up and down the shore, other than a small grouping of pipers eating morsels from the sand, here I am, alone, not another visible life in sight.
What have you got to lose? The voice in my head spoke out. Surveying both directions of the shore a dozen more times, the voice kept prodding me… Do it! Be free! This is what will help you change everything. You must let go of control!
One last peek in each direction and the somewhat bashful and introverted me, stripped butt naked and rushed into the ocean without testing its degree of cold.
Naked freedom is exhilarating, yet, confusing. Here I am, naked to the world and I don’t care… likely because no one is around to see me, but I like it. The voice is right, when I let go of control and splash around like a child in a bath full of toys, I’m happy. I’m free of world problems. I’m free of “Frank” problems.
I caught the next wave, and it took me to the shore. A crash-landing at the end of the ride brought back memories. I used to ditch a few high school classes and come to the beach to surf, body surf, or hang out. I loved sitting for hours and observing the surrounding beach life.
How unfortunate, but those memories… they always end with the realization of being alone… always, I’m alone.
Let’s not analyze this, Frank. Try to enjoy the moment. Don’t be so caught up in your head.
I jumped back in and swam out to catch another wave.
After about an hour of play, the waves wore me out and something seemed different. An eerie feeling washed over me, so I decided to catch one more ride and call it a day. As the next wave built momentum, I swam as fast as possible. I caught it, and just when having the best ride of my life, something went wrong… a horrible type of wrong. Somehow, I got pushed under, turned over, rolled this way and that and lost all sense of control. My head breached the surface, and I faced the open ocean, not the shoreline. Exhausted, I began swimming toward shore, and the more I swam, the further away I got.
What the hell?
I swam with a vengeance, and still made no progress. My thoughts advocated to my desire that the ocean would take and devour me.
Shit! My wish is happening.I’m so tired. Keep swimming, Frank. Don’t stop!
In a split-second, I caught sight of a man on shore, and he appeared to be yelling while pointing to the south. I fought to keep my head up, and the guy continued to throw his arms as though swimming. Again, he motioned and pointed toward the south.
His message came clear… in all my years of surfing and playing in the ocean, I never experienced a riptide. Though my absence from the ocean has been at least 15 years, perhaps, for some mysterious reason, I chose today of all days, to end my life.
I needed to do something different, but first… a break. I took a deep breath and began floating on my back. I let the water take me where it would, which came to be a little further out… beyond the end of the pier. After a few minutes to catch my breath, relax my body and mind, I began a slow swim parallel with the riptide, trying to move out of its grasp.
When I swam far enough south, I began a slow breaststroke toward the shore. Still, void of enough energy, I went under. By the grace of God, if there is one, a lone, powerful wave picked me up, and slammed my body onto the shore like a crash-test-dummy. I never appreciated life more than when my feet and body touched ground. Weak, I stood and then stumbled right back down to my knees. Crawling toward the beach’s embankment, I stood and got knocked back down by another wave hitting me in the back…like the ocean slapped me for good measure and told me to not come back. I couldn’t be more exhausted.
Approached by the old man, he looked down at me and all my nakedness and said… “You got lucky, son!”
I rolled over while coughing, spitting up and shaken. With wobbly legs, I made it to my feet… weak and swaying.
“I lost my brother by riptide back in ’63. You got lucky.”
I nodded while trying to keep my balance. What I wanted to tell him… luck didn’t come to the beach today. By the contents of my private conversation a short while ago, more or less… I’m challenging fate.
“You might want to retrieve your clothes, they’re about a quarter mile that way.” He pointed. “I tell you… you’re a fighter. Most people would’ve given up and succumbed to the strength of the sea.”
Heading in the direction of my clothes…
“Are you going to be all right?”
I nodded, gave a single wave, and kept walking. I suppose I should’ve thanked him for his concern, but I just fought the hardest fight of my life… no mood for chatting.
Back to my clothes, I sat upright… kind of in a fetal position. I sat quiet, hugging my pants and shirt between my legs and chest. I couldn’t believe… still not a soul in sight. I began brushing away loose sand from my body, got dressed and moved a little further back from the ebb and flow.
The old man’s words buzzed through my brain again… “I tell you… you’re a fighter. Most people would’ve given up and succumbed to the strength of the sea.”
I guess I don’t want to die. The perfect opportunity presented itself, and I chose to fight. What am I missing? I’m still here… why?
A lone tear rolled down my cheek. Mustn’t there be answers, Frank? You almost checked out. Another missed opportunity… why? What are you so afraid of?
I walked back and sat at the bench that overlooked the grim reaper. It’s so beautiful, peaceful, and unassuming. Is that how death is… beautiful, peaceful, and unassuming?
I stared hard at the ocean and realized, I fought one of the most powerful entities in this world… water.
Pondering my escape from the clutches of death… when the ending of my life is what I professed to want the most, I laughed at myself when I realized how pathetic I am… I blew it! I’m even a failure at death.
I shook my head, hoping answers would fall out from within my ears… joking of course. Although, the morbid thoughts just beyond my reach… they kind of taunted me. These thoughts are questions, and answering the right ones the right way, with brutal honesty, would lead to solving all my problems. Then, it hit me in the face… What are my problems? There is no list.
The first problem is there is no list. My problems are a massive conglomeration of an idea, and even the idea isn’t offering anything conclusive for me to scrutinize… besides my whole life… again… conglomerate.
Frank… you’re 40 years old, 42 to be exact. You’re single… in respect to no wife or kids or girlfriend and you come and go whenever you please. To some, that would be the life of greener grass over some fence. So, what the fuck is your problem?
The biggest and most embarrassing dichotomy of my life is that I am a life coach. I help others all day and every day, but if any one of my clients walked a mile in my shoes… they would see me for who I am, and I would be broke. To be transparent, honest (for once), I realize I’m a fantastic con man. What is it they say? “Fake it ’til you make it.” Well, faking everything has been the story of my life… damn good thing I don’t have close friends, or a close anybody… otherwise, the jig would be up.
People do refer you, Frank. Referrals come from people you helped. They believe in you, so why don’t you believe in you?
I paused my internal battle and admitted that I needed a break. I needed time to go away, relax and work on myself… a retreat.
For whatever reason, I would never justify going on an actual retreat… like go to some desert in Arizona, hang out in some hot hut, or hot sauna, meditate and take time to reflect on the right and wrong, good, or bad, of one’s life… my life.
Long ago, I convinced myself that a retreat is a waste of money. Always asking myself… who can’t pace back and forth, or walk a trail for an hour to come up with the same answers they would pay thousands for elsewhere?
Taking immediate action, I called two clients new to my schedule and informed them that I would be putting them on hold. If they still needed coaching when I return, I would be happy to help them as clients.
Analyzing the conversations with these clients, I realized they’re sabotaging themselves, as well. Of course, why wouldn’t they accept a later date and let their personal present-time sabotaging continue? We all do this… some more than others.
You’re not the only one, Frank, performing self-sabotage in some way or another… everyone seems to love drama.
The joke is… we don’t even see our opponent unless we are looking in the mirror, and even then, we don’t recognize them as the enemy. Isn’t it interesting, we all have our demons, but we can’t see the damn horns?
I needed someone to talk to, someone to share ideas with and not be ridiculed. I’m not willing to be psychoanalyzed by some psych major, but I’m aware that I need more than text-book answers. Though I’m sure some psyches are professional at what they do, digging in to find issues, I’m of the ilk that I can deal with my life… at a far lesser cost. I just need someone to listen to me. Again, to be transparent and honest, I’m not open to anyone probing into my psyche. I much prefer to ask the questions and go away to pine for answers… find my own resolve.
What do I need to resolve? Why do I always feel so crappy about life? Is it possible I’m so aligned to those I’m dealing with, that their crappy lives encroached on mine? No… can’t be… I lived a crappy life long before ever being a coach.
As a coach, solving the problems of others is easy because I’m not attached to any of their emotions… which are attached to their issues. Here it is, regarding their issues, I’m clear as to what I see, but when it comes to mine… the waters are murky and deep. I began a short walk back to my truck and realized I’m free of clientele. I have freedom…
So, Frank, you’re free of work, there’s a chunk of change in your account, and your only bills are rent, food and gas for your truck. What’s your next move?
After determining how long I wanted to be gone, June to September, I needed to act fast and give my apartment manager a 30-day notice. I decided I can survive on the minimalist of belongings, so I will sell everything in my apartment on an online platform. Whatever doesn’t sell, I will donate.
Put everything in storage, Frank?
No. The reason I’m not interested in keeping anything. is because, when and if, I come back… from wherever I’m going, or whatever I’m doing, I will start anew. If I do die, then no one will need to deal with my stuff.
Deciding the bed of my truck would become my home, when back in my apartment, I got right to work designing the layout of the build. I would make a small frame to throw a mattress upon, and when I pulled down the tailgate, I would have access to a long pullout drawer. I learned by watching hundreds of online videos regarding the nomad lifestyle. Like a coach would suggest… learn from others who have been successful at what you want to do. The Internet is there for a reason.
I learned information regarding the nomad life… for which I yearn to explore. One of the most important aspects of being a nomad is to be stealthy while living in a vehicle.
I have a true desire to live this type of lifestyle, but is it what I need? Will it help me to move away from society’s rules and regulations, and feel some sort of freedom?
Frank, it is not about rules and regulations… you’re just trying to avoid everything. Don’t hold the bad that happen to you and push it on society. People aren’t interested in your personal problems.
On my drive to the lumber yard, I felt heavy in the shoulders and the idea of being depressed made its way across my brow.
I must say, I don’t reach a depression like those who take medication or go silent for long durations of time. Whenever I feel at a loss, or depressed, I take some niacinamide for a week. After a day or so, I’m back to my old self, sans the depression.
How can you be back to your old self, Frank? You’re either depressed and want to kill yourself because of the depression, or you’re not.
Do I need to take a pill for this or that, or for depression? No! No way absolute! I understand the body needs to be replenished with vitamins and minerals to operate at its best, but if I want to handle anything disturbing me, what I need to do is change the focus of my awareness. Awareness doesn’t come in pill form, but more so, in understanding how to apply focus.
So, why am I focusing on death, when earlier, a beautiful beach and magnificent ocean offered me the enjoyment of its beauty?
I didn’t have an answer, but the voice, the same one that prodded me to swim naked, kept making suggestions.
The answers will come if you do the work, Frank. Take some time, go away, do the work, and don’t forget to breathe.
By early evening, I created a frame within the truck’s bed and placed a 30″ width board to support a cushion and call it a mattress. Against the opposite wall of the truck’s bed, I lined with containers holding clothes, shoes, and other gear I would use. Beneath the bed, I created a long pull out drawer that would hold other essentials like camping gear… tent, stove, propane canisters, water bottles and more.
The more I thought about it, I didn’t need much to survive. When I sat on the wood framed bed with a thick foam pad, it felt strong, durable, and with a few thick blankets, I would be very snug and comfortable.
Long before having this idea of using my truck for a potential home away from home, I purchased a truck bed topper with all the gizmos. Dark tinted windows would allow me privacy, and small interior lights would allow me to see things during the night, if needed. With my key fob, I’m able to lock myself inside the truck bed without worry or having to rig the lock in some fashion.
Now, from experience and on occasion, I need to use the bathroom at night. To ensure I had the ability to urinate without having to crawl out of the truck, I utilized a portable one-gallon gas container with a funnel and connected it to the wall of the truck. This would allow me to relieve myself straight into the container with no fuss.
To the average Joe, or Josephine… if you will, this may seem a very crude setup, but it didn’t originate with me. Professional stealth campers suggest it, and it so happens, relieving one’s self is a very important factor in overall comfort.
When night came, I made the decision to test my new home while parked in the safety of my carport. None of my neighbors would be able to see me sleeping in the truck, and it’s a quick way to learn of anything needing to be revealed before the maiden voyage into my new world.
This will be what you need, Frank. You preached minimalism for years, so now the time has come to experience it for yourself.
Yes, for years, I told my clients to purge as much needless crap out of their lives as possible. I told them to rid themselves of material goods, and to also control their eating habits by removing excessive nights out, or fast foods. In a not so friendly manner, I suggest… “Learn to cook and understand without a second thought, what you’re putting in your pie hole,” I said all that, yet, I have never followed my own advice… I’m guilty… guilty as sin.
The more I thought about myself as a “life coach,” the more I realized my total hypocrisy. My life’s no better than people on social media who make their lives appear great but aren’t experiencing anything close to greatness.
I can’t keep doing this. I no longer wanted my life as is. When I speak, I want to be honest. When I tell someone to do this or that, to change this not that, to experience this not that, I want it to come from personal experience… not something I read somewhere and thought it would be a good idea to pass along.
I no longer want to shovel shit from my pedestal. I want to embark on a life change that is direct and clear… different from the life I’m living now. As unfortunate as it is, all change must start in the no-man’s land that most of society will never play peek-a-boo with… in the recesses of the mind.
I closed my eyes and wandered. I chose to visit an easier time in life, my childhood… if “easier” is possible with a past such as mine.
Wandering to a place that should be considered a safe space, the local park, I’m eight years old and chasing a friend. Playing tag, I used the playground equipment to keep a distance between us. Focusing in on this memory with fondness, for a moment, I wondered where that friend is today. I remembered him chasing me in the direction of the swings, and with imperfect timing, I ran across the path of a woman riding one of the swings with her pendulum momentum moving in a downward motion. When her feet connected with my chest, I jettisoned at least ten feet. I remember laying, clutching my chest and gasping for breath.
Inspecting this memory from another perspective, this time from a vantage point above the sandbox, I ran wild as kids do when they play. Changing my vantage point to my peripheral vision, where I caught another angel of the scene, I recalled a mass coming toward me. Watching the scene unfold, it became so real in my mind that my body began clenching tight, waiting for impact. Only a moment later, I began to feel a shortness of breath.
Continuing as the scene unfolded, I reacted as I did back then… my mind ejected from my body, and as I recall, my young boy body began fidgeting on the sand. It felt almost like an out-of-body experience (OBE), though, I never wanted to believe an OBE is real.
Interesting… my memory allowed me, the older me, present time me… to run out of breath as the young Frank, fidgeted. Digging… I wondered why I recalled the bad part of the park.
Step out!
Adhering to the command, I lay still and took a much-needed deep breath. That incident, almost 34 years ago, is somehow relevant, and still in the recesses of my mind. I hope the significance of the memory is available, but as they say, the largest whales are grown from the smallest of plankton… if you can reel in my cast… things take time.
This is the kind of memory, Frank, you need to understand because there is a reason it is still with you today.It is significant!
I lay still and tried to absorb my thoughts of what I need to understand.
Whether I’m in a proverbial jail chartered by my mind, or in a real jail cell, I will be trapped if I don’t take the time to understand the impact of pain… emotional, as well as, physical. How I use the emotional or physical pain for personal sabotage, those answers will forever wait in the recesses until I’m able to work them out.
I reminded myself that one of the biggest game changers of working on myself, my body and mind, isn’t always going to stem from my personal painful experiences. I understood there would be many pains and/or patterns, which I inherited from observing others… whom I may never have even known.
Creating my own example… Whenmaking a statement that declares, “I’m just like my mother,” my next immediate move should be to inspect any words or actions emitted right before making the statement, asking myself… Why, and/or how, am I like my mother?
The hard part of that question wouldn’t be the fact that I must put myself in the position of my mother, but more so, that I must follow up with more than a simple or basic answer.
Okay Frank… this is where personal introspection comes into play.If I say something, or use some term that I never use, that’s when opportunity presents itself and I can ask the million-dollar questions… How did this idea make its way into my brain? Where did these thoughts and words come from? Who from my past spoke or did an action that somehow vibrated without approval, into me? And that, Frank, is the power of the mind. It is the little things that add up and create the obvious expressions recognized as physical discomforts.
I slept through the night and found my truck bed is as comfortable as my regular bed. Today on my agenda, I would give an exit notice for my apartment, and begin posting all my belongings to an online sales platform. Within a week, I hoped most everything I owned would be gone. The only keepers would be items that I want or will use in my travels.
It took two whole weeks and three days to rid myself of the larger items: bed, dressers, sofas, and such. Most of my clothes went to charity. The keepsake… a large photo album of family, I flipped through the pages and said goodbye, throwing it in the trash. About to walk away, a second thought made me climb into the metal trash bin and retrieve the album. I realized I might be able to use it to jostle parts of my memory.
A small walk back to my apartment, I opened the album and there, on the first page, my Aunt Beth. I remember her as an angry lady who always told you like it is. I’m sure she’s been through some hardships throughout her life, and from my recall, I never witnessed any offers of pleasantries from her. I’m aware of the forthcoming dichotomy in personalities, but if there is anyone that I wanted and appreciated speaking with, and anyone able to make me feel worse about myself, there is no one better than dear old Aunt Beth.
If I ever wanted to bullshit anyone in this world, she’s the absolute last on the list. First, she would call me out for being insincere to her, and second, for being insincere to myself. If I couldn’t handle the fact that I’m a flawed human being, and unable to admit it, as sure as onions make me cry, I would expect a big F-You straight from her.
There are times you’re the same way, Frank. You’re much too often aggravated by others.
And that is the point I wanted to reach, my apex… fix the flaws and deliver coaching like no other.
By the third week, I rid myself of anything and everything I did not want to take on my journey. I donated a few miscellaneous items and turned in my keys to the apartment. I didn’t care about taking a loss of a week’s rent… telling the managing office to forward my deposit to my bank account of record and expect me to take action if any discrepancies or cleaning charges that didn’t belong, appeared on my final refund of security deposit.
Granted, I’m running away from a week of rent, but that doesn’t mean I should give up my deposit of $2k.
First stop, Aunt Beth’s house in Monterey, California.
As I drove from Los Angeles, a few memories, fond and not-so-fond, cross my brow. Other than a few days ago, Aunt Beth and I only spoke a few times over the years.
I recalled a time when I was six years old. My mother and I visited for a week during the summer. I recognized Aunt Beth as a woman of few words, but even at a young age, I recognized the few words as straight forward truth, and smack-dab directed at you… not something to be mulled over and considered in thought. She mastered a personal power which offered a stern look, that when paired with her silence, created an experience that put an instant end to any squabbling or disagreements.
I remember, one time I said something ugly and mean spirited to Aunt Beth and… Whack!… a cheek full of palm. When I went crying to my mom, I got nothing… no protection, no hearing me out, no… “Beth, you have no right to hit my child?”
Thinking about it now, my mother only offered protection when it somehow advantaged her. I don’t recall her ever backing me in any confrontation. There were so many times I was correct about things, but told that I’m wrong… so often, it made my head spin. Regardless of at home, or school, Aunt Beth’s house, or even at a fast-food diner when they got my order wrong, my mother would say… “Just shut up and be glad. I work hard so you can eat.”
She always played the guilt card from her sleeve. I don’t want to say that I’m an abused child, so much as, my voice got muted all too often. If I compared abuse versus constant humiliation, I never experienced the abuse like some kids throughout the world… the kind of abuse that makes a face unrecognizable. No… I don’t recall every single spanking, or slap across the face, but I do remember the ones that took an ass whooping to an all-new level. I went from restrictions to soap in my mouth for lying, to a strong slap, to the belt, to having something thrown at me, or even hitting me with any available object. I wouldn’t doubt if my mother trained the CIA in waterboarding techniques.
As I drove and reflected on my early childhood, I figured with the number of hours ahead of me, now is the time to begin the work.
Which people controlled my life? What made my mother capable of being a parent; one able to raise a solid, responsible individual? Did her actions as a single parent make me who I am today? Did her strong hand have anything to do with me being functional in society’s construct?
It didn’t take more than a few questions before wanting to avoid the life called, Frank. I decided to lose myself in some classic rock… as opposed to facing my own music. I’m sure at some point, I would pose and answer some heavy questions of depth, but as I drove, a thought came to me… one that I couldn’t avoid.
What if everything my mother did by not protecting me, made me find ways to protect myself? Is it possible she did this with intent? I mean… necessity is the mother of invention. Oh, Aunt Beth, I hope we can talk about the past without the ugly parts hanging over our heads.
Turning the stereo loud enough that I couldn’t even begin to hear myself think, I jammed my way to Monterey, starting with AC/DC.
A quarter to five in the evening, I pulled my truck into Aunt Beth’s driveway and sat in silence, assuring myself of her demeanor… I hope I don’t get de-meaner side of her.
She’s a good woman. She’s just stern…. reared that way. The way I’m reared… by someone who winged it. This is going to be a good trip. God… please let it be a good trip.
I knocked on the door and while waiting, I practiced a smile and open arms for a hug… which surely would be rejected. While waiting, I became entertained by a sniffing noise at the foot of the door. I knocked again and learned that the sniffer also had a bark to its repertoire. A bark is almost preferred… better than a doorbell or a knocker.
A minute or two later, since she didn’t answer, I used the knocker on the door, and rapped it five or six times. This time, the dog barked loud enough to disturb the whole neighborhood.
Still, a few minutes later, nothing.
Hmm… we spoke earlier this week; she’s aware I’m coming today. Perhaps she’s out to the store. Go wait in the truck.
Hungry, I decided that instead of waiting, when in Monterey, there is only one place to go if one wants a full belly. Compagno’s, a small grocer/deli just west of the Defense Language Institute, Foreign Language Center… a small military base known as the DLI, for short… it’s the absolute best and is known by soldiers worldwide.
After ordering, I took the largest turkey sub in the world, and headed to my second favorite place in Monterey… near the shore. There is something… I’m not sure why, but I enjoy eating my meals in my car while overlooking the ocean…something I do quite often.
Parked, and working a mouth full of food, I recalled how much my mother loved Monterey. As a young girl, she loved Cannery Row, the bustling sardine cannery center of fishing in its day. She also loved when the author, John Steinbeck, made Monterey famous beyond its beauty. What she didn’t like…the aftereffect that changed the town forever. The sardine factories are long gone, replaced by modernization, tourism.
I wouldn’t mind living in a place like this. It may not be my mother’s Monterey, but it is beautiful… no doubt…for sure.
Only able to eat half of my sub, I rewrapped the remainder, and decided to stroll the shore for a while.
A few hours later, again, rapping the knocker and… no answer at the door; no human… no barking dog.
I hope she’s well. Of course, she is… because I’m sure the Grim Reaper, has her on a “Do not disturb” list.
Then I thought, what if she’s not alive? She is old. What if she’s inside and dead? What if the dog is eating her at this very moment? I shrugged. Well, I guess we’ll find two dead bodies in the house.
I slapped myself the way Aunt Beth would if she caught me saying such a thing. The only difference between her slap and mine… I didn’t cry with mine.
As darkness fell, I thought about breaking into her house, but to be eaten by a rabid dog or possible shot by a deaf aunt… not on my schedule today. I decided to call the police in the morning to see if they would accompany me into the house, to check on her.
Crawling into the bed of my truck, tonight’s the real deal. This would be the first night of stealth camping. Even though I practiced in my apartment’s parking space, and I’m on my aunt’s property, still, it isn’t the norm where anybody expected me to be sleeping in the truck.
Laying still, pondering the game I’m creating, I realized that I am free of any monetary responsibilities. I think this is the first time since being an adult, that I didn’t owe for anything… regarding debt. I’m now a minimalist with a healthy bank account, a full belly, and a truck with few miles… in other words, for this moment in time, in respect to overhead, I’m solid.
Early the next morning, I heard some slapping on my truck’s windows, and a scrappy old voice demanding I park elsewhere.
“Come out of there, you son of a bitch!” She paused and couldn’t see through my tinted windows. “Take this damn vehicle off my property! Now! This minute!” She said as she slapped the truck.
I smiled as I gathered my senses and realized she hasn’t changed… not a bit.
I opened the back hatch and when I did, she peered in, still yelling expletives that would make a sailor seem like a saint.
“Aunt Beth… it’s me, Frank.”
“Franky? Well, what are you doing in there?”
I didn’t answer, knowing it would take too long to explain, but when I crawled out of the truck and faced her, I performed my practice hug to a tee… I smiled and held my arms open wide.
Since she didn’t move forward to comply, I moved to hug her, and yep… like hugging a rock.
“I’m so happy to see you Aunt Beth.” I lied through my teeth, but to see someone who is actual family… I can admit it was nice.
“When did you arrive?”
“I got here yesterday around five.”
“Well, you should have knocked. It may be that I didn’t hear you because I play my music rather loud.”
A bit confused, I didn’t hear any loud music playing yesterday, and how she didn’t hear me knocking and the dog barking, is beyond me. I decided to best let it go. I needed to perform a morning ritual, so I asked directions to the bathroom.
Upon entering the house, the dog that barked with the roar of a lion, is a Bichon Terrier named, Harley.
Harley didn’t let me enter as though I lived there. In his protective little mind, I needed to pass some conclusive sniff test. It took a minute before he approved and calmed down, then huddled close to Aunt Beth. How he ascertained that I’m not a threat, well, perhaps a dog’s nose knows what it knows.
As I took care of business, a thought raced across my mind… Why the hell did I choose to come here?
Why do I feel more jaded by this life of mine? All too often, suicide sounded like a welcomed friend tapping me on the shoulder and saying… “You don’t need to put up with this crap life that belongs to, or is somehow controlled by, someone else.”
Why is it so crappy?Find someone to talk too, Frank. Find someone soon or you’ll… well… find someone.
While washing my hands, I stared long and hard at myself in the mirror.
I don’t think I’m ugly by any measure, but I sure do think some ugly thoughts. I’m fit of body, but my mind is weak. It seems the only type of staying power within, is the kind that sits by and listens to my self-loathing. I’m a bully to myself, and if not so afraid of the pain, I would punch myself in the face just for being me.
How the hell did I create any level of success coaching others?
When I stepped out of the bathroom, Harley sat waiting across the hall. He gave me a stare-down for which I responded… “Don’t worry, I’m not staying long.”
In the living room, I found Aunt Beth seated, waiting, reading an old National Geographic magazine. As I took a seat in the recliner, she placed the magazine on the coffee table in front of me. I couldn’t help but to glance at the title that offered information on where man came from and where he is going. The story of my life, coming and going, but with no direction. At some point, I would skim through this magazine to see if there is anything valuable I can learn… something to lighten my load.
As Aunt Beth and I started talking about her mundane daily rituals, Harley pawed my shin. And he didn’t just paw it, but he left his paw in place on my shin. It’s as if his reaching out to me said, “Let’s talk. Perhaps I can contribute to your brain.”
I reached down from my seat and pet him on the head, then rubbed his ears for a moment.
“He’s taking quite the shine to you.”
I smiled and kept rubbing his ears., not having the nerve to tell her that he’s a rat in a poodle suit. I dislike little dogs to my core. To me, they represented weakness. I lifted Harley’s ear and telepathed… Of any such dog that represents my personality, a Rottweiler is my match.
About to speak to Aunt Beth, again, Harley pawed my shin for attention. His face seemed to question the Rottweiler statement… informing me that Rottweilers are tough dogs, and not likely to want to commit suicide. So where is the match?
“He wants your attention, Franky. You and I can talk when I return.”
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“To take Harley for his walk and talk.”
Walk and talk? Yeah, right! Frank… she’s going off the deep end. Quick kill yourself so you don’t have to deal with her and her mangy mutt.”
With the leash and doggy poop bags in hand, Aunt Beth headed out the front door. Harley stopped and glanced back at me. Aunt Beth acknowledged his actions by offering…
“He wants you to take a walk with us. We’ll show you around the neighborhood. There’s a wonderful trail leading to a spectacular view of the Monterey Bay.”
A bit reluctant because of her “nutty” thoughts, I took a deep breath, got up and followed them out the door.
“Shouldn’t we lock your door?”
“Franky, I’m 87 years old, if someone wants to steal my doilies from the couch, no worries… I have more.”
Regarding her comment, I found myself laughing on the inside. She’s right, though. The house is old, and the furniture matched. I’m almost positive the furniture is the same from when my mom and I first started coming here some 40 years ago.
As we walked, Aunt Beth’s stride came strong for 87.
Her age?How has she done it? The will to live so long.
The way she dressed… immaculate. Her clothing appeared a bit dated… back to the 30s. She wore a white blouse with semi puffy shoulders and a long denim type skirt that went down to her ankles which, in turn, revealed her practical, up-to-date trail-hiking shoes. She’s immaculate, but still stuck in an era of long ago.
Whatever! She’s doing better than you, Frank!
We hiked up to a lookout point which offers an incredible view of the Monterey Bay… when not so overcast.
Aunt Beth became a GPS and pointed out the obvious… “Down that way is the wharf, and if you follow the coast to the west, it leads to the beautiful town called, Carmel.”
Letting Harley off the leash, he took the opportunity to sniff around as Aunt Beth led me to a nearby bench which is positioned to gaze over the coast… kind of like my bench at the beach.
Seated and looking toward the bay, I did the obvious small talk by stating, “It’s a beautiful view from up here. Thanks for bring me to see it.”
I caught her cringe a bit like I’m crazy… as if her mind stated… “Hello…overcast, you idiot… what can you see that’s so beautiful?
“Well, the view is much nicer when the sky isn’t so thick. Perhaps it will burn off later.”
Okay, so she isn’t as crass as I made her out to be, but I would swear she’s capable of killing one’s hopes and dreams… perhaps she is being nice this one time.
Though I do believe I nailed it! Even though she cringed and came back with a nice response, the stern, mean old lady was still beneath… lurking.
Give her a chance, Frank. Maybe she has changed. I shouldn’t pull any punches with her. She’s always been straight forward with her thoughts, and they always defined the moment as it is, not as she would hope it to be. She might be who I’m trying to be… the person that says without impunity, how it is, and if someone is too fragile to handle reality, well, therein lies their problem.
“I must say, Aunt Beth, Monterey has always seemed like a beautiful place to have grown up, and an even greater place to have settled.”
Taking a moment to respond, she semi smiled…”It is beautiful and has been easy on the eyes, yet offered some difficult times.” She hesitated, then… “All good things come to an end.”
I sat quiet for a moment, thinking about her words. Should I push for more?
“You did have some incredible times in this life, didn’t you?” I paused a moment… “I mean, every life has some great moments, doesn’t it?”
“Yes… yes it does, Franky.”
It’s almost as though she didn’t want to look me in the eye as her mind floated across the sea.
“I remember all the farmlands and canneries. Though it is still somewhat pungent, the stench of the ocean used to be much stronger, more prevalent. The noise and pollution is a byproduct of the expansion. Way back when, the people of Monterey, neighbors… we appreciated each other and did things for each other. We didn’t fear the little things and… though the cliché didn’t exist back when… sans a real global catastrophic event, everything is a little thing. Franky, life is a blip while we wait for our own little blip.”
Now you’re talking in my language, so tell me where and how this ends.
As if to read my mind, she turned her whole body toward me, and per her tactile ways, “Life can be tough, Franky, but you have to be tougher. Don’t be afraid of a few germs. Humans are amazing. Our bodies can perform the incredible. We didn’t survive this long by some odd chance. We’ve survived because our bodies fight day in and day out… our minds are only dragged along for the experience.”
Try as I may, I couldn’t deny her words. She’s a woman full of grit and embodies a rough personality that demands respect. I can see she is sensitively passionate about life. Still, straight-forward, but passionate.
Harley came over to the bench and sat at my feet.
“He must need you.” Aunt Beth stated.
“He needs me?” I asked.
“No. I’m talking to Harley.”
Not quite sure what she meant by… “He must need you,” when I sorted through it, I realized she’s saying that Harley is aware of my needs, and somehow, he’s going to fulfill them. “In case you’re unaware… since you just met him, Harley is a talking dog.”
“What?” I asked… knowing crazy town is right around the corner.
She must be getting senile.
“Harley and I talk quite a bit. He’s a great listener.”
No… Aunt Beth, the dog doesn’t talk or listen, although, there is an exception for treats… they do listen with intent at the word… treat.
I didn’t think I should indulge her, but I asked… “How does he talk, or listen?”
“He just does. I’m not sure whether it is subliminal or what, but he does.”
Lifting my eyebrows as I peered down at Harley and nodded my head… She’s certifiably nutzo.
“How old is Harley?” I asked out of mere conversation.
“He’s 12, so I don’t suppose he’ll be around much longer, but I believe they can reach 15-ish.”
Aunt Beth tapped her thigh, and as if they practiced this a thousand times, Harley jumped up on her lap. She began massaging his back, and I swear his demeanor changed to offer a very happy smile.
“Though I don’t wish for him to pass, I can only hope he goes before me. In this respect, I’m assured he is resting in a peaceful place?”
“And where will that place be?”
“One of two places. Either by that tree over there… where he caught his first squirrel… or with me. I’ll have someone mix our ashes and spread them.”
How freaking morbid can she be? Why am I on this trip? What made me want to visit her?
I caught her wipe a tear from the corner of her eye and surmised the forthcoming death of Harley is something she didn’t want to face. I’m not sure why anyone would love an animal so much that being buried with it becomes a consideration, but what I thought to be morbid, she did not.
Not willing to watch her cry over Harley, a memory came to me. Coming back from a solo road trip, and about to celebrate my 21st birthday… alone, my mother with tears in her eyes, needed me to take our dog, Bailey, to the vet and put it down.
According to her, I needed to be the one to put Bailey down because I had no compassion regarding life. I’m serious, that’s how she washed her hands of Bailey’s death. She said she couldn’t do it because it would be too difficult to handle.
My first thought while biting my tongue, and not speaking the truth aloud… “Are you for real? The bully you are is now sensitive?”
When driving to the vet, Bailey sat on my lap, and on occasion, her head laid somberly on my chest. I pat her head and twirled her ears while thinking of all the fun times we played tug-o-war with her toys.
Whichever toy still had enough threading to keep it intact, enough to roughhouse with, we made it work. My Bailey… the epitome of a rough and ready dog to have ever lived. The only thing I didn’t like in Bailey, like Harley, they’re small dogs.
At the vet’s office, as we waited in the lounge, I said my goodbyes to her. I thanked her for all the fun times… and there were plenty. That day, not man enough to be by her side, when it came time to do the deed, I handed her over the counter to the vet assistant and walked outside.
Bailey went to her death alone. She served my mom and I her whole life, and at the end, how do I repay her for her loyalty? Upon reflection, it’s no better than having thrown her in the trash. That act of cruelty is the absolute reason for never getting another dog in 20+ years. Who is the small dog now, Frank?
When I came back to present time, away from the memory of Bailey, Harley jumped from Aunt Beth’s lap to mine. Facing me, his head twisted a tad. It’s as if he listened to or read my memory and needed information about Bailey.
Like when he waited for me in the hallway earlier, I felt pressured to speak to him… so, I answered… “She’s in heaven.”
“Who is in heaven, dear?” Aunt Beth asked.
“Oh, did I say that aloud? I’m sorry. I’m thinking about our family dog. Do you remember Bailey?”
“I’m not sure, but if Bailey’s anything like Harley… they’re great therapists.” She smiled… “All dogs listen well, Franky, and if you let them speak to you, they help make sense of things.”
I stood and agreed with her out of some sort of sympathy to her becoming more senile.
Aunt Beth clipped the leash to Harley’s collar… “Come, let’s walk a bit more. I will show you other lookout points of interest. There are benches all around this trail, and over the years, I have met and spoken with so many incredible and interesting people.”
When we began to walk, she handed the leash to me and I began feeling a bit awkward. To me, holding a leash meant that I exonerated myself of Bailey’s death by my immaturity. Twenty years without a dog is not the long-term sentence I believe I deserved.
“Wait one moment.” Aunt Beth said as she stooped over to pick up a single poop Harley left on the trail. What opened my eyes in shock is that she picked it up bare-handed and put it in a doggy poop bag.
“Aunt Beth… you’re aware that you can pick that up with the bag and still not touch the poop, right?”
“Yes… and guess what? A poop is a poop. I can wash my hands later. A solid little processed stool is not going to hurt me. Besides, I remember when you wore diapers. I got crap on my hands a few times when I babysat you. And can you figure out what happened next?”
“What?” I asked.
“I lived another day.” She shook her head, and we continued to walk… “Life is amazing! Little things, Franky. Little things!”
She’s right… it’s a little thing… though I wouldn’t shake or hold her hand any time soon.
We took our time on the trails, and she showed me all the bench seats. Aunt Beth has been visiting these hills from an early age, and with all the bench seats combined, she expressed how they held many personal coming-of-age stories. She remembered walking with her mother and father in the evenings and sitting, waiting for sunset. Her father used to tell grand tales; stories that expanded one’s belief in endless possibilities. She smiled… ” It was a time when families didn’t dissolve into a TV as a source of entertainment.”
For the little time I spent since childhood with Aunt Beth, I’m beginning to find her odd, yet fascinating. She is not so much odd, as in weird, but more so, I might learn a thing or two from this woman.
“We’ve been hiking for at least two hours, are you getting hungry?” I asked.
Aunt Beth shook her head and kept hiking. Me… I found myself wandering more than the hills.
Getting hungry? I either am, or I am not. There is no “getting” in this scenario. Start speaking what is real, Frank, and don’t baby it. Hungry is what you are, or you are not.
I’m sure if I slapped myself right now, it might lead Aunt Beth to begin asking questions. An argument began with me and it needed to stop. All I needed to do is agree with myself that I would be more precise with my thoughts or words of choice.
When we entered the house, the doilies still lay in place, as well as everything else.
“Would you mind if I brought some of my gear in, and took a shower?”
“You will be staying here in the house, yes?”
“If you’ll allow me.” I responded. “I did build out the back of my truck to sleep in while I travel.” I added.
“Travel?” She queried… “Where are you going?”
I paused since I didn’t have a clear-cut answer.
“I’m not sure. I sold everything, and what didn’t sell, I gave to charity.”
“Running away, are you?”
I paused again and instead of me answering, she offered… “Nomads that aren’t in the Arctic, are people who think they want to explore, but are really just trying to escape something… only they can see the monster from which they run… if introspective.”
“What’s the difference?” I asked.
“When one is exploring… one goes home. When one is escaping… they are uncomfortable and have no return date. When anyone is uncomfortable, fight or flight takes hold. The fight means one faces the demons and settles down somewhere. The flight… may seem adventurous at first, but only leads to furthering the uncomfortable.”
I became rather quiet as her words gathered like a fist and did a face punch that I didn’t see coming. I shook my head and acknowledged I’m in the flight mode… uncomfortable with my life.
“I’m taking some time off between clients, so I thought I would go explore and visit family and friends.”
“Which family are you talking about? I’m the only “family” you have left.”
I didn’t respond, so she turned and… “You can sleep in the West room upstairs where you will find quiet and much comfort.”
For a moment, I became stuck in thought. She dropped the word comfort on purpose. I didn’t move…
“Go on now. The West room has its own bathroom. Grab your belongings and take a shower.”
She walked away and I turned to exit the house.
I rummaged through my gear in the rear seat of the truck, grabbing my laptop, a duffle bag of clothes, and a pair of new tennis shoes. I locked the truck, and when I went around to the driver side, I glanced at Harley who seemed to be studying my every move. I stopped in my steps, still a short distance from him, and told him… “I’m not staying long so no ideas of being comfortable with a man around the house.”
Man, around the house? Now there’s an oxymoron. I don’t have an idea what being a man is supposed to feel like. Hmm?
I think I feel more like a boy, a child… even a momma’s boy. I never sprouted my wings to become a self-sustaining, full-fledged man.
I can admit my mother babied and/or smothered me, not with everything I needed or wanted, but other things that allowed her to keep control… cooking my meals, doing my laundry… other things for which I needed to depend on her. When she died, it became hard as hell to take care of myself, and that didn’t happen until I hit the age of 34. She passed for reasons unknown.
In a literal sense, one morning I woke up and started playing a video game while waiting for her to call out a ready breakfast, which she always made. That morning, she never came out of her room. The eventual autopsy proved nothing unusual… no drugs, alcohol, medication, stress, heart problems… nothing explained why she died.
Shithappens, Frank! Don’t put the person on a pedestal who contributed to your problems. Instead, inquire about the relationship and find why you were a tit suckling baby for so long.
Double-checking to make sure the truck locked, I hit the key fob twice, and once more… making sure it chirped twice as many times as needed… my paranoia. Harley and I locked eyes as I made my way to the porch.
“What do you think about my problems, Harley?”
“It’s all on you, Frank. What do you want me to think?”
He replied… I think.
I sat on the porch right beside him.
“So, you talk, do you?”
Harley looked at me.
“Or do I talk as if you’re answering? Am I projecting my answers off your non-threatening self… so I won’t feel confused by my own answers?”
Harley touched me with his paw and left it on my leg. I found myself massaging the back of his neck, and when I stopped, he glanced at me for a second, turned his back… and repositioned himself for a back scratching/massage. I complied with his telepathic demand.
“Is this how it’s going to be, Harley? I bounce questions off you, and somehow my answers come? Via telepath?”
I thought about Aunt Beth saying, “All dogs are great therapists. All dogs listen well, and if you let them speak to you, they help make sense of things.” .”
Taking a moment to understand what she meant… “Harley, she’s deep, isn’t she?”
Just when I thought he would respond, the little he-man Harley started barking and darted across the front yard to catch a squirrel.
Watching him make his way around the tree, trying to keep the squirrel in his sight, Aunt Beth spoke from the screen door behind me.
“Guess what Harley is teaching you… though you might not be privy to the back story?”
“What is he teaching?”
“Harley has chased well over 3000 squirrels since living here. He caught one by accident…a baby squirrel jumped off a tree and into his mouth. It got away, but, still, Harley never gives up. He believes in himself. He believes in his dream… another squirrel.”
“Well Aunt Beth, perhaps he’s not that smart. Dogs just don’t know when to give up. They can’t make sense of things like humans do.”
“Are you sure? Is that what you believe?”
I nodded.
“Tell me, is Colonel Sanders or Sylvester Stallone stupid? Thomas Edison, Nikolai Tesla… stupid? They are by your definition. They failed a thousand times, and yet, they believed in themselves enough to not give up their dream. Interesting, most humans give up after two or three attempts at something. Yet, here it is, Harley, that “dumb old dog” has more tenacity and belief than your fellow human.” Pausing… “Who’s the stupid one now?”
I didn’t respond, so she re-informed me… “If you let them speak to you, they help make sense of things.”
She walked away and I turned to Harley. A space of two feet separated Harley from the squirrel on the tree. I only wished to hear the conversation each spoke to the other, subliminally.
Tenacity to fight for the dream… tenacity is what you need, Frank.
I picked up my gear and called Harley to follow into the house. Looking at me, then back to the squirrel, Harley came running up the porch stairs and inside. I, for whatever reason, chose to speak out to the squirrel on Harley’s behalf… “Harley’s letting you live… keep that in mind.”
The squirrel ran up the tree, and I shook my head.
Who am I? Doctor Doolittle? Am I in the twilight zone?
In my best Rod Serling voice… A man leaves everything, only to find… nothing.
After showering, I dressed in shorts and stood outside on the balcony of my room. The neighborhood was beautiful, well groomed, and as for Victorian style houses on this block, Aunt Beth’s is the biggest of the three. Beyond the balcony is a spectacular view of the bay meeting the ocean. Though the odor of the sea is faint, my taste buds made me believe I’m eating fish. Aunt Beth did say the bay changed over the years. I stood and felt the heat of the day on my bare chest. I absorbed the beauty of all before me, but within, I began to question…
Why am I here? What purpose does this visit with Aunt Beth have for me? I moved my body, mind, spirit, and personal possessions enough to leave a home where a personal structure existed; a solid foundation, and where I should have proceeded to move forward with my personal growth. Why did I uproot myself? Is it all part of my strategy to further ruin my life… to drown myself through sabotage?
I inhaled deep and sighed. These questions should lead to life altering success… I hope.
I hope you enjoyed the first 20 pages and I will tell you, Frank’s life gets deep, and comes with many life altering answers.Click here to purchase Harley Speaks