In 1970, when I was 10, a Carpenter taught me—"And when the evening comes, we smile, so much of life ahead, we'll find a place where there's room to grow, and yes, we've just begun."
In 1984, I was 24 years old when I looked around at that with which I had surrounded myself and realized that I lacked something very important to make a life lived in half, a whole. I have to wonder why I felt so ancient, as though my next breath would be excised from carbon - so spent it resembled dust. It did feel, and therefore seemed, that way to me. In 1984, I would experience on a personal level what felt like the very final expiration of Karen Carpenter's promise, like it had come to its consummate completion. There was no more room to grow continually in the life I'd made, and whatever I had begun was over. In spite of that, I found myself grasping - grasping to find something I was missing. And yes, I was missing something desperately. Regardless of my feeling so old and very alone, there was something more - one last intuition left to me from somewhere beyond my own skin. As I looked around, I found that I had surrounded myself with no one! There was the heart, soul, and mind of Tod, followed by Tod's skin. Then there was … nothing. I thought to myself, "I'm getting old, very old really… in fact, ancient.” I needed company on a permanent basis, the type of company people much younger than myself enjoyed. More than the company, though, I needed companionship of the other kind. Of this, I was desperately certain. It was the kind of certainty I'd never experienced before. So, I started looking… kind of.
I have a question if you'll permit it. “How does a man with little to no self-acceptance or self-worth find companionship of the other kind that is wanting, let alone willing, to coalesce?” That was the quandary I found myself in, this ancient man near the so-called end of his life in 1984. I hate that I missed all the clues to the contrary, the ones that denied those inner thoughts of little to no worth. Those clues were there, after all. You see, I had missed signs throughout the years - lots of signs. There was the girl when I was in J.R. ROTC, who wanted me to take her to the Military Ball. Then there was that other girl, the most beautiful girl in school, whom I'd gotten the courage to walk up to during lunch not just to say "Hi", but also to sit next to for the remainder of the lunch period, kind of talking very awkwardly until the bell rang. From there, I simply paid attention to her. I'd talk to her every day as I walked her to class and carried her books. In time, she would eagerly throw me up against a wall so she could press her body next to mine while she gave me a passionate, open-mouthed kiss! That scared me, and after that, I can't remember if we ever talked again. Then there was the female Airman, who wanted to pour a liquid from one odd-shaped container into an even odder-shaped container for me. Why? Because, she told me, “Men just weren't good at such things!” Then all of a sudden, she started showing up by herself at the church I was attending, even on Wednesday nights! What cute young woman from the Air Force suddenly shows up to church on Wednesday nights without prior evidence of being a “Jesus freak” like I was? Then there was the girl at rehab, as well as our mutual friend. Maybe they saw that I gave away gifts I had no idea I was sharing. Maybe they saw some beauty from me that was real. Still, it made no difference, because I never realized it or saw it in myself!
In 1984, I had my demons in the form of desires. So, at first, she was just an obstacle in the way of me starting my shift at work when I was substituting for someone who didn't show up. She had trouble counting her money apart from some odd, weird method she'd created for herself. Even using her method frustrated her as she counted, then recounted her money, with differing results that led to even more stress she was obviously already feeling. "Might I help you?” I would ask, and “What if you tried this?" I asked partly because I wanted to get started on my shift, and I couldn't until she'd concluded her money-counting with its requisite paperwork, and partly because I felt for her frustration-induced stress. About that latter reason, well, you see, I always have to be myself, and I have always been that kind of person. She finally finished, but with imperfect results. I thought it was ridiculous. Anyway, not that I was looking forward to it, but I was finally able to start my shift. There would be other days we'd run into one another at work when I’d just let her be and finish her things imperfectly. Then some days, we'd talk.
My demons wanted a hummingbird. I mean hummingbirds are beautiful, right? But my demons weren't fixed on one thing over another. They were flexible. A robin still has wings made of feathers. Here's where a bad boy would tell his buddies he just wanted to find something that really screamed. I've never been a bad boy. I've always been simple. Honestly, though, my desires were just as selfish, wanting simply to have physical satisfaction. That's exactly what I received. While a robin doesn't coo like a soft dove, if you pay attention, you'll notice it makes a sound with its own intrinsic beauty, even if it's barely noticeable. And of course, I paid attention.
We'd hook up for the next few days, and I rather enjoyed it. Not a hummingbird, I thought, but I gradually came around to pay attention. At times, this robin sang a simple song that, despite my less-than-best intentions, sounded simply pretty - albeit some notes sounded prettier than others. Besides that, she wanted to spend time and energy on me - me! That thought crossed my mind again - the one where I thought I was growing to an end of an era but still had the intuition to desperately grasp for the companionship of the other kind. That was when I wasn't sure if God wanted it or if it was something I made up in my own head to sound like I had more to offer than the little I actually held? "God wants us to get married," I said to her sometime during that third day in a row we'd experienced one another's company. Of course, I thought I'd be rejected. This was me asking, and I am… well, I am just a big old piece of worthless junk. That's what I'd learned these last several years, and to be rejected for the third time would just complete a predestinated hat-trick. So, I was shocked! I don't know - maybe that's an understatement. I didn't understand, nor did I expect the excitement that exploded in front of me with the enthusiastic effervescence I saw as she jumped up and down shouting, "YES!" Was I happy? I don't think I was. I knew I wasn't going to back down, but I didn't know why. I kind of intuited that I wasn't about to make her unhappy, nor was I going to reject marriage - not at my age, hummingbird or not! Jiminy, I hope you and Sheila are experiencing bliss, but at this particular time, I most definitely both needed and missed you, buddy!
I was learning to hold her hand in public even as I learned how I should introduce her. I was learning to be with her. I was beginning to realize that she would actually be inside the apartment where we lived when I got home from work. Stories, stories, what is it about stories? Oh yeah, I like to make them up, then share them. In sharing them, if they make you smile, so much the better. I wanted to be nice to her that night. I really did. I wanted to be kind, to be sweet. I wanted to do this and see her smile. I put my thinking to work on my imagination. I put words together and spoke them to her. I wanted to use them to paint a beautiful watercolored picture for her. Now, mind you, I didn't use pastel colors. I chose the primary colors and made them vivid, but I thought as watercolors, they'd have a blended softness to them. To her, though, I think they appeared to be bright oil paints with harsh lines that hurt and cut. I tried to paint a story in which she, her sister, and I explored a thick jungle only to be captured, with her and her sister being imprisoned and myself tormented at the sight of seeing her like that. I tried being a hero for her in this story, and I thought because she had told me she was a Christian that she'd understand my hero's inspiration was Jacob and that I'd borrowed from his story about his marriage to Leah and Rachel. But she didn't get it. I committed the sin no Harlequin male hero ever committed, and my story was rejected out of hand. I eventually learned to put away my paints before we went to bed. Stories would eventually become a thing that only existed in my past.
In 1985, a man named Mr. Gatti made a pretty good pizza in Evansville. I loaned him my car so that he could sell more of them. I eventually ran shifts for him at his restaurant. He mostly sold pizza, but his lasagna, well, it was to die for. That was when Prince made us a movie in which he sang that awesome song about his experience with purple rain. Cheryl, my fiancée, used to come by all the time. Mr. Gatti's place became a hangout for some of us. Pat's car was used to sell pizzas. He loved Prince so much he used to say he wanted to get close enough to him to make a body part purple. Joan just smiled and took people's money in exchange for Gatti's pizzas and fermented beverages served in ice-cold mugs. There were other people, there were conversations, and there was fun. Serena used to wonder why her boyfriend did the things he did. She wondered if there was a code about guys she could crack. I had a secret crush on Serena and often thought her boyfriend took every possible advantage of her naivety. This was the year Cheryl and I were married. Life seemed good, like that last day of spring in which the clouds are white and spread out just to highlight the gorgeous blue of the azure sky, the leaves on the trees are bright green, and the birds are perched in their branches serenading other birds of similar fathers. They even serenaded you if you were paying attention. Then, you could smile and feel wonderful on this last day of spring when the air still smells crisp with the brightness of the season. The temperature of that air? That's an OMG! You want to judge it, but just for a second. You want to say it's ever so slightly cool, only to second guess yourself and then say it’s ever so slightly warm. You smile. You take in everything, and in taking in everything, you understand everything is perfect and perfectly wonderful on this, the last day of spring. Pat, Joan, Jaimie, Serena, Mr. Gatti, and the happy ghosts of others remain in my mind. My mind, despite deep emotional pain and the darkness that never ceased to surround me, this was when my mind still produced some levels of serotonin, endorphins, and dopamine in the year we married - Cheryl and me.
I was excited in 1985. I looked forward to getting married. I really did. Everyone at Gatti's knew Cheryl almost as well as they knew me, and our pending marriage was sung about all the time among my friends with uplifting notes and chords that expressed only the goodness of the event. There was the me, though, that people didn't see and that frankly, I didn't know. This was the me that always felt “less than” and unworthy. From the very start of Tod and Cheryl, I played in the mud but managed to wash up before I presented to the people who mattered. The first day of summer was going to be a scorcher!
It's funny how it is the last day of spring and with the snap of your fingers, it is the first day of summer. On June 8th, we took off for our honeymoon at Kenlake State Park in that middle 70's Toyota with a passenger door that wouldn't shut. It wouldn’t shut because after a snow-driven winter delivery at Mr. Gatti’s, I was so frustratingly angry toward crazy drivers who knew nothing about driving on snow that upon getting back to the store, I promptly got out of the car and repeatedly slammed that door over and over again until it's latch mechanism wouldn't work anymore. I had to buy a rope from the hardware store to tie the thing shut. One of our wedding presents was a box of gag gifts from the crew of Mr. Gatti’s. One of those gifts was a small, simple 12-inch strand of white nylon rope representing that part of our lives. We both laughed at this, absolutely loving it! The drive down was extremely hot, and of course, the Toyota had no air conditioning. We found a solution the only backside of which was a big old puddle of water on the floorboard under Cheryl's feet. Packing for the honeymoon, Cheryl had packed hosiery that we decided to pack full of ice and tie directly in front of the air vents. It only worked well enough to blow air on us that was just cooler than the ambient air. This solution was kind of brilliant and stupid. I guess you might say it was our ying-yang solution. Lol. We had a good time on that honeymoon!
For so many reasons, that scorching summer would go on for what seemed forever. Almost immediately after the honeymoon, even without me personally realizing it, I’d stop baring my soul to Cheryl since she’d so easily rejected the beautifully crafted water-colored picture I had painted her. I don’t put the cause and effect of this on her, not in any way. So, don’t you dare think that’s the case. It was all on me because I allowed her rejection to be a reflection back to me of a Tod I already knew too well, by memory, with my eyes closed. Still, before that day, and then days, weeks, months, and years afterward, there was a part of me looking for something more. You see, although I was married, I was still looking for love and, more importantly, acceptance. But no matter what I did, whom I met, what I said, or whom I said it to, it would never be enough. It was never the other person who had the problem. That was always on me. Love, romantic or platonic, was something I unrealistically thought should come easily to me even while I felt no one would, or could, accept me for who I was. In retrospect, though, I was never up to the task. In my own mind, I was never good enough and never would be. As a result, both love and acceptance would always escape me as I just couldn't, wouldn't, and absolutely refused to believe in myself.
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