Asymmetrical Anecdotes

Copyright © 2008 by Robert Alan Goldman.

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Contents

Incidental Eavesdropping

Accidents Happen

Thawing

Fightin’ Words

Transitional Tremors

Surprising Scenarios

Mellow Milieu

Sporadic Spurts

An All Time Low

The Upshot

Former Self

Wild Gazelle

Seasonal Squalls

Salad Bar

Lost Inspirations

Manic Cocktail

Freshmen Frenzy

Brain Sentries

Mood Labyrinth

Skating By

The Next Moses

Mania Redux

Intoxicating Temptations

Warnings Ignored

Psychiatric Semantics

Immutable Musings

Fateful Friday

The Letter

Two to Tango

Sibling Correspondence

Another Day

Lost in the Sauce

Impulsive and Convulsive

Mystic Mystique

Double Vision

Humble Homage

A Nurtured Nature

Rock and a Hard Place

A Disquieting Dimension

Bushwhacked

Meat and Potatoes

Forging Ahead

Farewell to Fraud

Steep Learning Curve

Luck of the Jewish

Seat of the Pants

Gone But Not Forgotten

Winner Take All

One Of A Kind

True Blue

Poetic Preponderance

Orchid Storm

Experiences and Exposures

Irascible Irrationality

Any Old Team

An Imposed Structure

A Letter From Dad

Moody-Go Round

Alternative beginnings: everyone has a story, here’s mine. Or, count your blessings. Not your woes. This is how my story goes. I’m falling into something in a life of random coincidence and happenstance. A fragmented version of reality and being coalesces amidst the chaos and confusion resembling a vague sense of normalcy. If you only knew, the things I’ve been through. The stories I could tell, if I were feeling well.

I’ve finished my first book. Why not take a look? The things you’ll hear me say, may cause you some dismay. The book may seem out of order and hard to follow; in some places hard to swallow. I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop. There are some things you just can’t stop. Sometimes I feel like I’m about to plop!

People’s lives resemble prisms. We all have peculiar mannerisms. Are we all born as a blank slate, or does it all come down to fate? To say we’re all connected is a statement I once rejected. Yes, there is a common thread. For all man’s sins He bled. We stumble, fall, and crawl when we refuse to heed His call.

I wonder why I didn’t die. I see him in his chair and think, there before the grace of God go I. I ask myself why did it have to happen at all? I was just a kid, so young and small. Throughout all the changes, I’ve tried my best to adapt. My parents watched as my mind came unwrapped. Sometimes I feel as if all my strength has been sapped.

I wish I knew the reason why, I feel barraged by certain stimuli. For a long time now, I’ve been hedging my bets; too often wondering is this as good as it gets? Over the years, I’ve taken my fair share of licks. Now I find myself in quite a tight fix. I’m turning into the someone I always was. I don’t know why; it’s just because.

As I progress through the stages of life, creeping up on to middle age, I sense I’m being pushed in an obvious direction regardless of my wants, ambitions, and desires. Who knows where the journey will take me? All I can do is pray for enlightenment and guidance on the way, and the fortitude to overcome the trials and tribulations I confront during my short time here on Earth.

Incidental Eavesdropping

Four women sat at an adjacent table in the corner of the diner. Three of the ladies wore long black frocks with large silver crosses dangling proudly from their necks. The elderly lady in her early seventies appears to be the mother of the pretty grey haired lady with close cropped hair sitting closest to me. Their table is only a few feet away from ours, where I sat with my wife and in-laws.

I couldn’t help but eavesdrop on their conversation. I felt like I was a kid back in Sunday school. I quickly lost what little appetite I’d had after the long drive; not to mention getting drenched by the rain while sightseeing on the beach at Panama City. I have no stomach for their dogmatic drivel, I muttered under my breath as I excused myself from the table to grab a quick smoke outside; my clothes still dripping wet from the torrential downpour.

I suppressed the urge to laugh in their faces when I heard their absurd comments regarding Satan tossed casually about. They quoted verses from the Bible regarding sin as they continued the saccharine chit chat. I supposed none of them, except for perhaps the mother, had the slightest insight as to what life is really like for the majority. Have they ever had to seriously question their faith in times of strife?

Have they encountered suffering and hardship along the way? Or have they been raised as good little girls, sheltered and shielded from temptation, deprived of nothing: all their needs and wants taken care of, to become pious Sunday school teachers who embrace their creed as Gospel with an unquestioning blind faith.

Accidents Happen

Drenched with perspiration, I awoke from a death dream. Sometimes I’m crippled. In this one, I’m dying. I’m unable to remember the dreams in detail. My inner child struggled to comprehend the emotional turmoil my parents suffered as they watched me lying in the coma. Deep in the inner workings of my psyche, haunting visions of a horrific accident are burrowed. Dormant memories harassed my subconscious. I wished I could say I viewed my life as a second chance. In truth, I wrestled with the ultimate question why I am I here?

The sight of a person in a wheelchair stricken with a debilitating illness, or worse yet, someone with a missing limb, deeply disturbed me. Instinctively, I looked away. The thought lingered in the recesses of my mind—if not for the grace of God, the consequences of the accident would have been far more devastating. After six weeks in the hospital, close to a month in a coma, I endured a period of physical rehabilitation learning to walk again.

I cried for the first time in my adult life. Young children playing at the pool-side in Israel triggered the flashbacks. When I closed my eyes at bedtime, I could picture the accident as my father had described it to me the very first time when I questioned how it occurred. I imagined myself crossing the busy intersection to meet with friends after school. We played inside the old abandoned farmhouse on the street corner.

Kids at school told stories of the house being haunted by ghosts. Crossing the street on the way home, I panicked in the middle of road when I saw the car. I turned around to run back to the side I’d crossed from when the car slammed its’ brakes. The car skidded. I rolled up the hood of the car, hitting the windshield and thrown to the street all in split second.

Sirens blared. No I.D. found; commotion all around. Policemen knocked on doors in the immediate neighborhood, asking parents if their child was missing. An elderly lady informed the police his parents had been looking for him. The officer thanked the lady for her assistance.

What’s the address of the house, ma’am?

It’s the green one over yonder.

Excuse me miss, asked Officer O’Brien. Do you have a boy about eight years old?

Have you found him? I’ve been looking all over the neighborhood for him. Please, God. Tell me he’s all right.

Please come with us to see if you can identify the boy who’s been in an accident a few blocks from here.

Minutes later, they arrived at the scene. My parents could hardly recognize my disfigured, bloody body. The ambulance rushed me to the county hospital just down the road. Several weeks passed by. One morning, I woke groggily from the coma, my father at my bedside.

What do we do now? I asked my Dad. Tears streamed down my father’s face.

We’ll take you home as soon as the Dr. says that it’s ok. You just take it easy now. Get some rest. The doctors say you need plenty of rest to get your strength back. Dad bent over the bed and kissed me on the check.

Before I go, I have a little surprise for you, whispered my Dad

He smiled as he presented me with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich he removed from the brown bag he’d been holding in his hands.

Hurry up and eat it before the nurse gets back. Here’s a carton of milk to wash it down with.

He handed me the eight ounce container he bought downstairs at the hospital cafeteria.

Did Mommy make it? I asked.

Both my sister and I preferred our father’s sandwiches to our mother’s.

Mommy puts too much peanut butter on the sandwich. She never uses enough jelly.

I made the sandwich special for you.

I wolfed down the sandwich, while my Dad read me the morning comics. Dad brought me a sandwich every time he visited to break up the monotony of the strict diet.

I’d even eat Mommy’s sandwiches instead of this lousy hospital food, I said as I savored the last bite.

My sister Janet visited on the weekends. I loved my sister, except for the constant complaining about her hair.

Why can’t I have long straight hair like the other girls in my class? whined Janet.

She had a beautiful head of curly black hair that everyone admired.

Hello Janet. Thanks for coming to see me.

Sure Bobby. I’m not afraid of the hospital anymore. We’re going outside to have a picnic today. Can I push your chair?

The doctors said I’d be coming home soon. Then you can teach me the new game you learned. I’ll bet I beat you the first time we play.

The summer sun began to set on our July fourth celebration. We enjoyed the time together, feasting on fried chicken, biscuits, and coleslaw. The nurse permitted me to stray from the special diet. I’d shown signs of rapid recovery after three weeks of intravenous feeding while in the coma. Back at the hospital room, my sister cried as the fireworks went off in the background.

Don’t worry about me, I reassured my sister. I’m tough. You’ll see! I’ll be home soon, beating you at hide and seek and tag. Hey, Dad. I’m feeling pretty good. Why don’t they let me go home with you tonight? Oh! You mean I’ve only been awake for a week now. I guess the doctors want to keep their eyes on me a while longer.

My father choked back his tears while my mother sobbed, grateful I survived the battle with only minor damage considering the circumstances.

Judy, he’ll be fine, said my father. He’ll have a terrific scar where they stuck the i.v. in his ankle.

I don’t care about the scar. What about his arm, Arthur?

He’ll be all right. It’ll just be a little shorter. They said it shouldn’t limit his activity in any way. Thank God he’s alive and well.

Not many people seem to notice the disparity in my arms. For those who do notice and are rude enough to inquire about it, I simply respond, I was in a car accident when I was eight. I recall my days in elementary school, when I didn’t mind discussing the accident. In fact, I enjoyed being the circle of attention. When my classmates asked about my injuries, I happily recited dislocated shoulder, three fractured ribs, fractured pelvis, broken arm, and I lost a couple of pints of blood. I also ran a temperature of about 104 or 105 the first week in the coma.

I felt like a celebrity of sorts when my classmates gathered around to hear me retell the accident. People often asked if I could remember being hit by the car. Every time the question was asked, I thought to myself how ridiculous the question was since I immediately lost consciousness. Nevertheless, I enjoyed answering their questions, especially when one of my friends dubbed me as the Evil Knievel of Bergen County. Aside from the food, the worst thing about being cooped up in the hospital was the cruel night nurse. She sat at the bedside with the fan blasting on high speed while she read the newspaper.

I’m cold, I complained again and again, but to no avail.

The nurse paid me no mind at all. She drew the curtain by the bed so she could ignore me completely; out of sight, out of mind. But I was still in earshot.

Why aren’t you nice to me, like the day nurse? You’re mean!

The day nurse, a wonderfully kind woman in her early fifties, liked to talk to me about her family and her pets. She’d grown up in a farm in South Jersey, where her family raised horses. She read to me from her favorite book as a child.

When my second grade teacher came to visit, she read to me from the copy of Black Beauty the nurse gave me.

This was my favorite book when I was a little girl, said the teacher.

Miss Kruger, would you please turn around? I said as I sat at the breakfast table blushing. The nurse had just finished bathing me when she unexpectedly arrived for a quick visit.

All right, I won’t look. You get dressed, and we’ll pick up where we left off the other day, Miss Kruger said as she opened the book

The rabbi announced himself to the room.

Hope I’m not interrupting anything,

Oh, hello Rabbi, my teacher answered. I was just finishing up the chapter."

He seems to be doing much better now. Your time with him seems to have made a vast difference, I’m sure.

The rabbi visited nightly as I lingered close to death. He silently prayed, while he rocked to and fro intoning a prayer in Hebrew.

I hope I don’t have to say Kaddish for the boy, he muttered to himself.

When I woke