Happy/Sad

A came back into town, pushing his car out of Frisco, into Houston and back to the Lou tripling the miles on the odometer.

Saturday night, a few friends gathered at The Royal, drinks all around and laughter. I sipped pear juice and fought my nerves with frequent trips to the bathroom.

Monday, dollar pitchers at Duffy’s, A has nothing to do; drinking is good as anything else. I’m off the sauce and need to wake up early for work. We settle on dinner and run into P and her husband.

Five years, since I last saw P. She looks mature, not the giggling lady in cap and gown of previous memory.

We’ve aged. This summer has put miles on my body. No time to rest, back to work with you.

Where Can She Win?

B, the priest turned nighttime doorman, doesn’t see it. McClellan’s expert is convinced it can’t happen. Old pols of the Lou shake their heads negatively. It is a national question that I don’t see how an affirmative answer can be given. Can HRC win the Presidency?

HRC is an amazing person. Her life story a 20th centaury experience. A Goldwater canvasser turned Watergate lawyer. A leading feminist at Brown changed into a First Lady who, “makes a mean tossed salad.” A Cubs fan donning a Yankee hat. She is a leader in her party and a role model for children. She will inspire people to do things unreachable by her or anyone in her generation.

She will never be President. There is just too much hate. Hate, deep loathing in the hearts of citizens. They see a greedy, power-hungry bitch that parlayed Billy’s tainted win into Senate seat and nearly American communism ala socialized medicine.

They will vote in the rain, the snow, and the heat to defeat her. They will insure many registered Democrats will be denied the vote by doing whatever is necessary.

So while New York, California and Rhode Island would cheer for her on election night, moderate citizens in states like Missouri, Ohio, New Hampshire and Iowa will have their voices drowned out by a chorus of boos against HRC. In the hearts of many, it will not matter who the other candidate is, the hate will drive them to vote against a woman who tries her best. A woman who cannot seem to get past the image of a power-hungry ice princess.

Expectations

H has convinced me that I still need to view myself in a time of recovery, recovery both from both mental and physical assault. Physically, I am doing well. My strength is returning, and the pain is manageable. Mentally, it is slower going. I no longer fear walking, dressing or driving small distances and have returned to work. There remains a plethora of activities such as driving on the highway, being alone, and exercising that is a part of the general terror. Each day, I do a little more and feel a little better. It would be a mistake to say that I am a hundred percent.

A hundred percent is what is expected though. Supportive and caring, my parents are ready for me to move back to my place. Bosses and fellow employees expect the old Luka. The man, who slept in cheap La Quinta, drove dusty Neons and lived off tea and popcorn, off the radar.

I am not near what I was in April. I cannot do what I used to do, not yet anyway. There is no way to explain it. I look fine. I put on a good show acting normal complete with flippant comments. Friends assume ‘I’m back’, while at Wal-Mart I am one extra heartbeat away from a panic attack.

I am not back, despite what I want and most think.

What is in My Heart?

Do I believe in my heart that I am well? Do I believe that I am cured and could be running at 100%? No. Honestly, without a doubt, I know ‘no’. I do not believe I am completely healed.

If I did believe, I would not have this fear. It has been two months since the type of spell that put me in the hospital. Yet, still when I feel the slightest bit lightheaded/dizzy I assume it is all beginning again. Over a month since my last trip to the ER, and still sweating palms and an increased heartbeat lead me to the conclusion this is the beginning of the end.

Everything medically checks out. The doctors promise me. When will I believe them?

Is it possible I will always have this doubt and fear in my life like my paranoia over dogs or terror in asking for a date?

Fear

It is my prevalent emotion, present from waking to my last conscious thought. It never ceases its assault on my life. Always with me pressed in my mind while driving, talking, reading and eating.

Children who are afraid of the dark have the daylight to be safe. Snakes, flying and heights can be avoided with little difficulty.

I and the fear of illness are bonded, tied together. We are married in a seemingly undivorceable union.

Must make it stop.

Digging Myself Out...

Each day, the layers of the summer fall off. Each day, I feel closer to normal. Each day, I am a little better.

There are still times, I feel the anxiety; positive, I am going to have a spell. In the copy room, the world becomes tilted. The air is thick. They are short now. These times do not ruin the whole day. Breathing deeply and sitting helps them pass. I have not had a spell in over a month.

Layers of the summer are falling off. The Luka is returning, productivity at work over video game victories.

A returns from Frisco on Friday.

C comes back from Texas.

S should be in Town.

K closed on his home.

Life is normalizing.

Facing Our Kong

I like a movie whose symbolism is weak enough that I can see it. So, it should not come as a surprise that I liked the new King Kong. Liked, not loved, or best movie ever, I liked it. I was pleased with it, recommend it to a friend, but never buy it. Acting could be better and some of the computer graphics were overdone.

To my point, one of the obvious symbolisms of the show was that Kong was something we fear. Everyone has their own Kong, and we must challenge it or become like the natives of island and be slaves to its existence.

Though I like movies with easy symbolism, I take it to heart about as much as David Duke’s campaign platforms. Out of coincidence, I used this one. On Thursday August 17, I returned to work after a three and a half week disability layoff. My heart healed, my anxiety waning, it was time to get back to being a Luka.

I am not completely cured. I still feel nervous whenever my pacemaker stimulates my skeletal muscle. The drugs make me slightly dizzy and nauseous. I am afraid to drive on the highway. The apprehension of getting off disability and returning to work remains huge.

All of it is my Kong. A daily beast, I must face and stare down. That is too simple.

I am still the Luka I was in mid-April. Yet, I am hidden under layers of pain, shock, fear, terror and agony. An awful summer eclipsed my life. I must stand up, face the darkness and look towards the light of early fall.

Beer with My Grandfather

Empty Natural Light cans and GPC cigarette stubs were permanently on my grandparent’s back porch, cheap brands for a minor cattle owner who lived off his garden and social security.

After a day of welding, fixing the tractor, moving the cattle from one field to another, repairing the cattle guard and a little fishing, my grandfather would come home strip down to his white undershirt and Dickie’s. He ate dinner late the plate sitting in the microwave waiting for him. I didn’t spend much time with him on the farm. I do not have a green thumb and ranching was never my thing. He respected that. While he sent the other grandchildren to work, he let me fish.

Going to the farm so little, most of the time, I was at his home before he arrived from the fields. My grandmother and other family members already playing games, in bed, or watching TV before his day was done.

Finished with the meal, he would retire to the back porch for a beer and a cigarette. I would always follow. Even with my heart problem, I would sneak a cigarette out of his pack and open a can of beer. Our conversations were mostly stories by him, advice given not outright or in fables, but in memories. The war, growing up and early days as a mechanic were his favorite subjects. He intertwined questions about my life with his narrative. Class, friends, and thoughts I explained to him. He listened and then would launch another verbal novel. His stories had the power to make me forget my worries, hunger for knowledge about his life, and feel the love he had for me.

October will be the second anniversary of when the man who taught me tic-tac-toe died. My grandmother’s backyard is without cigarette butts and Natural Light is absent from the fridge. As different as he and I were, we always had our time on the back porch.

Coffee at 5 A.M. at MoJo’s (no sleep)…

I never believed this place would close. I pictured it would be available to generations of students to: ‘study’, sober up, bullshit, play chess, meet, and hang out. An Austin institution, its place in college lore cemented by film. Yet, all things must end.

In conversation with C about how quickly Austin was changing, he mentioned that MoJo’s had closed. He assumed I knew and stated it as a well-documented loss. I had not known.

Its layout was famous. First floor was coffee, tea, juice and the MoJo drink. Second floor was rumored to be occupied by the owner and his family. Rumored, because I never knew anyone who saw them and personally found it hard to believe anyone slept above the twenty-four/seven place. On the outside, every chair rescued from salvage and uneven table was occupied by students trying to escape the heat.
MoJo’s was always hot. It lacked AC, which meant that paying customers only appeared after sunset.

In underclassmen days, it was possibly for to be at MoJo’s three times a week. Honestly, I never brought a book to study. Many times MoJo’s was the final stop for the evening, 5 a.m., partied out, sleep deprived, mind fuelled by beer and caffeine. MoJo’s was the place to be when you wouldn’t go home.

MoJo’s was a fortress against the world of normalcy could not penetrate. It was the last escape of desperate kids running away from normalcy and towards invincibility.

Rooming with J (or part of the story)…

It is impossible to describe rooming with J. Maybe with graduation on the horizon and graduate school assured, I would have had a good time with anyone who threw parties almost nightly. I do not believe it. J and my place was where I was happiest in college. I believe it came from the special bond J and I developed and the experience of rooming with him. Since, I do not hold the literary skills to give it its due; I will share what a typical evening was like.

The Corona was in the fridge. The port was cheap. The rum was spiced. J and I were drinking Tito’s Vodka iced from the freezer mixed with orange juice. Each screwdriver had well over two shots of vodka. Exact measurements melted away as the evening wore on.

Other people drifted in and out of the room. Girls flirted with J. I coordinated food deliveries for the boyfriends. Chicken wings and cheap beer cans stacked up as freshman rolled in announcing how many drinks they had consumed that night. What had started as an evening of J and I watching TV turned into an event.

I left my seat only to go to the restroom and mix more drinks. From my corner throne, I observed the whole party leaning forward and joining in when I wanted to, leaning back and drinking in silence when I felt like it.

Some people headed downtown to the clubs. Others looked to score from M. J and I stayed. More people came. Finally, at 3 a.m., I went into my bedroom and felt the world spin. J and others stayed up.

I got up for my early class at 9 a.m., grabbed some O.J. without Tito’s, and would do it all over again the next night.