“Life is going to exceed your expectations; it is going to astonish you with its timing.”

Those words were uttered by my 8th-grade history teacher, Mister Pacione. It was 1975 and he was referring to the New York Mets of two years earlier. A last-place ball club in August who came within one game of winning the World Series.

“So be grateful for them. Allow yourself to enjoy. Embrace those moments. They will go by quickly and you will look back and it will seem like it was all one day.”

I don’t know why, but those words hit me a short while ago and have not left. So, I Googled the quote to see what came up.

There is this quote by Bianca Sparacino and it goes like this:

“Trust that some of the best days of your life haven’t even happened yet. There are going to be parties that leave you dancing until 6 AM, spontaneous adventures that teach you more than you ever learned in a classroom. There are going to be nights that will stay burned beneath your eyelids, memories that dance underneath your skin. Life is going to exceed your expectations; it is going to astonish you with its timing.

Remember — you have not felt it all.

The world still has so much left for you.”

Coincidence?

Maybe I don’t remember Mister Pacione’s exact words, but it was pretty darn close.

I don’t remember too many things I learned in a classroom, with the exception of Mister Pacione’s quote, and I think my days of going to bed at 6 o’clock in the morning are long gone, although I did fall asleep the other day at 6 PM and woke up an hour later with no recollection of where I was and drool on the side of my mouth.  But I do believe the world has great things to offer. I have been going through this depression thing and I look for the good in everyday things.

Okay, okay, it sounds silly. But think for a minute:

Hot and Cold running water. When all else fails, at least you can come home and take a nice hot shower. Many people in the world do not have access to clean water.

Transportation. You do not have to walk uphill both ways to get to school or work; it’s likely you have a car or can take mass transit. My poor dad lived in Brooklyn and was one of those unfortunate souls who had to walk five miles to school in the snow, uphill, both ways, in June.

The Internet and access to information. If we have a question all we must do is Google it, and copious amounts of history and research pops up. And knowledge is power. How amazing is that? Does anyone even remember the library?

Electricity. If you can say “Let there be light!” and immediately have light by flicking a switch, you are pretty darn lucky.

Your health. Every day you wake up, you should be grateful that you have your health and that your limbs move, allowing you to walk. Many of us do not think about it on a daily basis, but it’s one of the greatest freedoms to have.

Someone somewhere loves you. You matter to people, and at your lowest times it’s important to remember that. This one struck me. Do we really matter? Did we matter? Does it matter? Does anything matter anymore?

So Where Does That Leave Me?

Did you ever wake up and realize something in your world was not right, but you could not put your finger on it? Then it comes to you. You think about the happiest time in your life. Was there one period of time when you were at your best? Of course, you did not know you were at your best and that’s why it was so good.

Teaching your children when they were growing up? Starting on your high school basketball team? Watching your favorite hockey team win a second Stanley Cup while you are in the stands with people who meant the world to you? Walking into your apartment at 1:00 in the morning, hoping there was something to eat in the fridge not resembling a science experiment?

There were periods of my life that were terrific. Take 1988 for example.

That was a pivotal year in which I was spending summer nights with a woman who I worked with. But this scenario is pure, fantasy conjecture. I want to be clear on that because I take the subject of time travel seriously and the science gets mixed up too often with the story lines. So, in this respect, my response has absolutely nothing to do with anything but fantasy. All anyone can ever do to “relive” a period of their life is to visit that time and see themselves already there.

Whatever they choose to do then, to interfere with it, would be allowed however, they themselves would be who they already are, age and everything, they would not be their younger selves with knowledge from the future with which they were acting upon.

And of course, as is always the case, these scenarios would be unfolding in a parallel universe separate from their original timeline.

Oy vey. See what I mean about the depression. But let’s stick with the summertime New York City, 1988 scenario. Her memory feels like home to me. So, whenever my mind wanders, it always finds its way back to her.

The Narc ripped up all of her pictures so I’m working by memory and she looks like Aphrodite, so let’s keep that memory alive.

NOT SO FAST

But hang on, before we go there, I have some questions. Have you ever wondered where an internalized message of “I’m not good enough” comes from? Do you feel you give life your best, work hard, try hard, but still can’t give yourself credit? Are you constantly beating yourself up and thinking that somehow you should be more, do more, be better, and you don’t measure up in your own mind? 

So, even in my daydream of the best times of my life, I have to explain why I never felt good enough. That doesn’t even make any sense.

How does the message “I’m not good enough” get internalized? Where does this come from? To start with, I want you to think about small children and how impressionable they are, how they are soaking up life and trying to learn and understand the world around them. And the most important thing to them is gaining love and affection from their caregivers. They do not yet have a worldly or experienced understanding of human behavior or why people behave in certain ways. Their main goal is to be loved, and this is of course, what every child deserves. 

So, you must understand that when I hit 16, I could fantasize about a woman or pretty girl but that is as far as it went. I never felt secure enough to be with a woman. And to spend time with a beautiful woman, ten years later? The good news for her was she knew I had no expectations. Women were always safe with me.

But Wait, There’s More

Just because a child grows up and may begin to see the dysfunction in their family of origin, it does not mean that the internalized message is cleared away. At least in my case it doesn’t.

We all want to believe that we came from loving and nurturing families. It is normal to try to deny and rationalize and believe it is all in our heads. It is easier to take it upon yourself than to stand in the courage of your own truth and experience and resolve your own trauma. But I have recovered, to a small degree and have been able to release the burden of carrying the emotional baggage of growing up in my family. The message was wrong. It was not my fault. It was a distorted reality that I had to buy into to survive in a dysfunctional environment. The tight wound negative message of “I am not good enough,” began to unravel causing some relief. This doesn’t mean I totally let go of the blame, anger, rage, or carrying resentment towards them. But it does need to be understood before one can heal. It is also more possible then to be accountable and realize that you can change yourself as an adult and be who you want to be and not continue to be defined by your family of origin or others.  

Yeah, right. That’s a mouthful of BS but still needed if one is to surpass depression and figure out why he lost out on so many opportunities due to fear.

Back to 1988 and New York City. The sad part of this of course is, that I will probably end up loving her without her for much longer than I loved her when I knew her.

What?

Some people might find that strange.

Might?

But the truth of it is the amount of love you feel for someone and the impact they have on you as a person, is in no way relative to the amount of time you have known them.

So as long as she occupies that place in my head, I can love her, and she is loving me back. Kind of cool.

Lonely, but cool.

Back to Time Travel

We spent time in Northern New Jersey, home of the corporate office, and where she lived, and we spent time in the city, where I worked, and I lived. We were with people, which she knew I disliked, and we were alone. When we were with people, I was just another person among the many who enjoyed her time. When we were alone, she loved me. I love revisionist history.

I was comfortable with my job and feeling like a human being.

I suppose that last part needs an explanation. You can see that I had some problems fitting in. My definition of living life was conforming. Being a human being meant that I was no different than anyone else. No better. No worse. I looked in the mirror and saw failure. Failure before it even happened. I wanted people to look at me and not run away.

Can you imagine? My goal was to be pedestrian. I just wanted to be no worse than anyone else.

So here I was walking down the streets of New York City with the most glamourous of women and feeling comfortable, especially after a few drinks and acting like a, well, a human being. I could not ruin it by trying to ask her out. So, I didn’t.

How good she made me feel when she would say, “yeww” in a wonderful Jersey accent, instead of laughing when my sarcasm took over.

Unfortunately, she could never insult anybody (a quality I learned to overlook), but her lips would point up when I said something of an insulting nature about someone we both knew.

It was the most comfortable I had ever felt with a woman. It was the most comfortable I ever felt with anyone. I would talk with her and she would tell me about her last date. Talk about pain.

Don’t get me wrong, I had dates that summer and somehow, I managed to take them home and to be asked in. But none of them was her.

In fact, I rarely spoke of my conquests when we were together for fear of her going to the other side and admitting verbally that we were only friends. And like I said, we went out that summer and laughed but never did she hide who she was dating. When you are that beautiful, you date. It just rarely happens that you go out and somebody doesn’t or didn’t ask for your phone number.

Life was simple and manageable

I knew some of the most wonderful people I’d ever know. Of course, at that time, I did not know any of that. I just made it my business to show up for work, no matter how much alcohol my body had consumed.

There were mornings when my alarm went off and with one eye open, I would ponder two questions, without moving, did I go out last night and do the surroundings look familiar? Good days were when the answer to the latter was yes.

Going out? Well, I lived a subway ride away from the office. A cab ride when things got later. The only issue if I ended up in my bed, alone, would be who was with me last night and how obnoxious was I?

Since most nights I was with the usual crowd, I would hear about it upon my entrance to the office, large coffee in hand.

This wasn’t always the case but most times, I could survive my actions the day after.

Can You Be More Specific?

March of that year comes to mind but there was a caveat. A custom back in those days with those terrific people was the celebration of Saint Patrick’s Day with a particular customer. The day would begin in the most beautiful of settings and how it ended was ugly and anybody’s guess.

At eight o’clock three of us from the corporation would walk to Fraunces Tavern and await the two customers from the bank. Beautiful. Historic. And just another watering hole.

Mimosas and Bloody Mary’s before the largest omelet and croissants one could put in one’s mouth. Followed by more mimosas and Bloody Marys. Certainly, more drinking than one should do before noon but as the tradition dictated, why stop there?

Lunch at Donovan’s, the downtown Irish Pub known for its Sant Patrick’s Day corn beef and cabbage and green beer.

Numerous beers and all of that corn beef was more food and beer than one thin Jewish guy from Long Island could take, but I learned to keep quiet and watch the festivities, which to my surprise, had not yet begun.

Oh no. This was the warn-up. The preliminary before the prizefight you came to see. Moments after leaving the pub, the decision was made to head to another financial district saloon, the Captain’s Ketch.

This was the danger spot. This is where one can look back and say, “This is when you learned that the tee-shirt hanging in the novelty shop was made with you in mind. Instant Asshole. Just add alcohol.”

We were approaching the five o’clock hour. People who had worked all day were ready to celebrate the holiday and attempt to catch up to the five of us. An impossible mission in retrospect.

The VP of Sales, the first manager who believed I had some skill worthy of employment, tapped me on the shoulder and suggested I grab a drink as he had just opened a tab. He continued walking to some customers in the back of the bar who just walked in.

I inhaled while fidgeting with my coat check slip. While placing the slight ticket in my inside suit pocket, I thought. “I can’t drink anymore. No, I cannot drink any more beer. Okay. Maybe a Coke. Calm down and then see what I feel like. A Coke and a cigarette*. Nice.”

(*This was the 80’s and indoor smoking was not considered inappropriate).

I had a plan. It was solid. It was logical. It was a good plan.

The bartender, a petite brunette with a terrific smile, turned toward me and asked what I would like.

“Stoli on the rocks.”

“What?”, I thought. “No. No. Coke. Why did you say that? All day. All day you’ve been drinking. What happened to the plan?”

She placed the beverage on a coaster with a napkin. I explained to her about the open tab and she smiled while reaching for the check near the register and writing something.

“Don’t drink it. Do not drink it. Do not even put the glass near your lips.”

Too late. Oh, how good it tasted. As the glass reached half empty status, one of the clients we had been with all day asked me what I was drinking so he could replenish it for me.

“Coke. Coke. Tell him Coke.”

“Stoli on the rocks with onions.”

“Again. Does your brain even function?”

After the third Stoli, I was introduced to an IT Director for the bank. They were interested in what we do and would like to get together.

My cheeks were rosy and my top button of my shirt was unbuttoned. “Terrific.”

“Steve,” one of the men said as he placed his beer on the edge of the bar. “You interested in any of the March Madness games going on tonight? I have some tickets?”

“Of course,” drunk Steve replied.

I proceeded to change lines and make some of the silliest bets a well-oiled man could make.

Somewhere near the 8:00 mark, I was told I could go home. Twelve hours of drinking left me wondering where that might be.

The car service voucher occupying my briefcase was confiscated by Keith, the VP of Sales, who by the way, looked like he had just arrived, shirt pressed, tie perfectly knotted.

“You can take a cab. Our customers are in no shape to take mass transit. Besides, you are not supposed to be using these for yourself.”

I found my overcoat as well as a cab. The night ended with relative ease as I remembered my address and found enough cash in my wallet to pay for the ride home.

It was the next day that was alarming. Keith, driving to the New Jersey office, called me. After asking about my welfare and complimenting me on my rather early entrance into the office, his demeanor changed.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Are you a complete jackass? No. No you’re not. You are a moron.”

“Keith,” I interrupted, in a raspy, strained voice reaching for the extra-large black coffee on my desk. “Can you tone it down just a bit? Working on a monster hangover here.”

“Do you even remember the bets you were busy making? And who, after drinking beer all afternoon, switches to vodka? What were you thinking?”

“Okay. The vodka? Not really my smartest move but what bets? What are you talking about?”

“In your overcoat. You have four sheets. Betting sheets. You don’t remember, do you?”

I slid the landline to the front of my desk, walked around the left side as I pressed the phone to my ear and shoulder. I grabbed the coat which was tossed on one of the two chairs in front of me.

“Okay, what are you talking about there is nothing in my…”

“I take it you just hit upon the nothing.”

“Jesus. St. John’s and I’m giving four. Why am I giving anything? Wait. This says a hundred dollars and all bets are final.”

“Einstein, you with me now? You have three more in there that are even worse. The games are tonight. Now, I know how much you earn, and those guys know where you work. You have a problem. Guaranteed losers.”

“I didn’t do this. You set me up. Please say this is a joke. Keith this is a joke, right?”

“No. This was you being an out of control lunatic. Vodka and beer?”

“It all seems like a blur and if I think about it my brain will start bleeding.”

“So, these guys are hardcore gamblers and they did not understand that you were acting like an idiot.”

“Believe me,” I said crumbling the tickets, dropping the overcoat back on the chair and walking around my desk. “I wasn’t acting.”

John, the sales rep I run around the city with and share an office with, walked in.

He saw my expression and smiled when I placed the phone on speaker.

“My roommate just walked in. Listen, I’m going to ask him to help me put together a telethon so I can come up with this money.”

They heard the outside sounds of the car phone. “Not one person will donate a dime for your cause. You can’t raise money for the terminally stupid.”

I heard John’s laughter as I sank into my chair. “I was going to ask how it went yesterday but apparently…”

“Now,” the voice over the speaker said. “I was speaking with another VP from the bank as your stupidity was at an all-time high.”

“Yeah, I’m getting that message. Can we ease up on the stupidity?”

“No. Not ever. But I asked George to do me a favor. I do not like asking customers to do me favors. You do understand that.”

John loosened his tie before taking the first sip of coffee from the cup he just opened. “Oh, I gotta hear this.”

“George bought the guys a round which is to say he put it on my tab and apologized for wasting their time and cancelled your bets.”

“Oh, thank God.”

“Oh, don’t go thanking him yet.”

John took another sip and looked at the speaker on my desk. “Oh, this has to be good.”

“Do I want to hear this?”

“Considering that George saved your ass, we came up with a way for you to pay us back.”

I opened my draw and began rummaging for the Pepto Bismol. “Us?”

“Who was it exactly who got George to forgive your stupidity?”

“Okay. Okay. What do I have to do?”

“You are going to take us to dinner at Il Mulino next week. Oh, and there will be NO use of company funds. Do you understand? No possibility of expensing. Notice I said dinner? Dinner means wine and I have a nice wine appetite at the moment. Believe me when I tell you that dinner for three at a well-known New York City restaurant will be less expensive than what you were looking at last night.”

He was right, as usual, and strategic. Dinner, which was well over four hundred dollars, was an opportunity to spend time with someone from the bank we rarely saw and improve our growth while allowing Keith to bust my balls as I picked up the check. (However, that ninety-dollar bottle of wine. Was it really necessary?).

With the help of one of my friends, I framed the check with the inscription, “A wounded rep repays a debt.”

The plaque was placed on Keith’s wall and the story became lore.

The day I delivered it, Keith walked me around the corporate office detailing to anyone who would listen about my buffoonery but ending it each time with what a standup person I was.

My life exceeded its expectations. For a short time I was more than pedestrain.

Back to that Summer

“I think perhaps I will always hold a candle for you – even until it burns my hand.
And when the light has long since gone …. I will be there in the darkness holding what remains, quite simply because I cannot let go.”

Though those words will never find you, I hope that you knew I was thinking of you today…. and that I was wishing you every happiness.

Love Always,
The guy who loved you once. (I suspect, still does).

Summer always seems so easy. People take time to spend with their family, the beach is filled with smiling children, and even the heat of a hot summer night is nicer than the wind and cold of winter.

Walking around Chinatown and Little Italy and watching the excitement of her eyes lighting up when we walked over to Ferrara’s made me feel, well, like a human being (there’s that word again) as she said, “You’re gonna eat half of my cannoli,  right?”

Me? I am sitting and laughing with this beautiful, glamorous woman and she wants to share her cannoli with me? She is not noticing my looks or my lack of self-esteem.

What is Your Problem?

It’s the stress that gets to me the most. The job stress? Maybe. But she works at the same place as me. It’s that I’m not good enough thing again. Whenever I feel like I need control, approval, or security, I react, like the animal I am. I get disappointed, upset at myself, and often attack within, “You $@#%$. How could you do that? Geez. You’re such a loser.”

Somewhere between the pain and the cannoli and the friendship and the unforced dialogue, it was so much fun. There was no thought of a future. It was just about the moment and the moment was great.

She looked at me like I was the stars when all I’d ever felt like was the dark nothingness between them.

Her smile and laughter lit my whole world.

Now What?

The only place I ever felt at home was with her. There isn’t a place for me anywhere anymore… I’ve been evicted.

Every quote, every book, every film seemed to suggest that ‘one day’ someone would come into my life and love me with an intensity and a passion I had never experienced before. And to their credit they were right; It was all her; Everyone I meet is compared to her, maybe not intentionally but some things are difficult to control.

I raised her so high that every other woman on earth is now doomed to live in her shadow.

It’s difficult for me to imagine the rest of my life without her. But I suppose I don’t have to imagine it… I just have to live it.

My heart’s been empty since she left – but still, I refuse to put up a vacancy sign. I’m just not ready for anybody else to move in yet.

The last time I felt alive – I was looking into her eyes.

Breathing her air…. touching her skin…

The last time I felt alive…. I was dying.

Cliches do not solve anything. Sure, they are there for you at midnight when you and the stars and the moon are ready to go another round.

So why have I never stopped thinking about her? Why do I think about those days and how I am still friends with people from those days?

Why do I keep reminiscing about her?

Maybe because the present is troublesome, so I want to go back to the past. It may also be because my mind is idle in the present and an idle mind is the devil’s workshop, (more cliches) so it dwells in the past. Since we have nothing to do in the present, our mind is going back to the past.

It’s painful, loving someone from afar. Watching them – from the outside. The once familiar elements of their life reduced to nothing more than occasional mentions in conversations and faces changing in photographs…. (I have sneaked the occasional look on Facebook).

She exists now as nothing more than living proof that something can still hurt … with no contact at all.

“There is an ocean of silence between us… and I am drowning in it. If you cannot hold me in your arms, then hold my memory in high regard.

And if I cannot be in your life, then at least you can be in my heart.

But just so you know, I poured my heart out ….

And now I am on empty.”

It all came and went so fast. It really did feel as if it were all just ‘one day’…