Part One: The Caveman
I'm a firm believer that old age doesn't exist. In fact, if vital records are to be believed, we are nothing but varying degrees of motion captured; all of us being grounded at some place and at any particular moment in time. These moments are in a constant state of "becoming." They lead us back to our respective spiritual caves where we watch the shadows of our life's images flicker again on the cave wall... Duh, Jeff...
They are who we are.
These flickers of light are the elements that allow us to complete whatever lesson we were supposed to learn before moving on to the next. Sometimes those lessons, like those who traveled through "it all" with us, tend to get lost along the way.
Do you ever feel the need to pay homage to your past? Or are you one of the lucky ones who never has to look back? You know, that whole "no regrets" thing. For me, that's always been bullshit. I like looking back. You know, looking back to those crazy halcyon days of memory that compromise the core (or the layers) of who you are. Lately, I have found a need to return (somehow) to the fold of these things. It could be because there are fewer years left by which to do so. Maybe because the old ghosts have a way of reminding us that they're never really gone.
I discovered this the other day and also once again recently a week or so before. (God, I hope that made sense...) My "discovery," indeed my homage came in the evening news when a television broadcast cited some altercation on "Campanile Street." For some reason, the name of the street resounded in me like someone had struck a gong. "Campanile Street" isn't too far away; it is a street in a neighboring town close to where I live. It was a name I had forgotten - or rather one I hadn't heard or thought of in years. Instantly, I was taken aback, and really washed back into the foundation of who I am, where I came from, and the people who've traveled with me.
It was then I remembered one certain evening and other happy times on that street whose name I had years ago. At least until just the other day when like some lost radio transmission from outer space, I was reminded of the "who" and what it meant to me. I immediately yelled to my wife, "Honey, that's where Herman lived..."
Herman. My friend. An all-around great guy. The guy who I'd gone camping with, barbecued with, worked with, had helped me build a fence with, and had given me a crazy ass drunken bachelor's party causing me to dress up as a caveman - yeah, that Herman.
It was the 1970s. He was a friend I'd lost contact with years and years ago. Jolted by memory, and by the fact that of that street's name... and well, let's face it by the fact that I'm probably running in auxiliary years if not on battery power I felt an urgency to find Herman - if only to say, "Hey, remember when," not to mention one giant "thank- you" for so many things..."
OK, Maybe not the caveman suit. (Wink!)
I was too late. An all too-quick Internet search revealed that Herman died more than several years ago. He'd gotten sick. He'd left behind a beautiful family and a great life. How could I not have known this? Yes, I had lost touch with him thirty years ago, but wasn't I always going to get around to calling him up? Wasn't I always going to get around to reminding him about that fishing trip we'd gone on where we didn't catch a fish for dinner but the bugs caught us instead.
Why had I waited so long? Why hadn't I tried?
Unsettled by this, that is the loss of my now long ago friend playing out against a mental backdrop of cheating uncertainty and my own behavior in neglecting the gratitude towards those we owe and who've traveled the road with us - well, I felt a wee bit lost. I didn't know what to do. How do I resolve this in my mind?
I placed the usual "electronic flowers" on his "electronic gravesite." I suppose if I still smoked I would have lit an "e-cigarette" and had an "e-beer" to remember him by. Gross. What a shit hole we live in, right? I mean maybe he'll know that I "e-stopped" by? Maybe his family would know...His kids were all grown. His wife moved on... What could I do? I guess I needed to assuage my shitty conscience. I needed some closure.
Above: At the lake - Herman's old truck.
I decided to reach out to his son. It felt way too stalkerish to me and maybe it was. Yet for some reason, my need to acknowledge Herman's life to his family and my gratitude for him in my own overruled my sense of decorum to just let things be. Nobody ever said I had good sense. Plus I'm old now...so anyone that doesn't like it...well you know what we all say to that...
So I found "Herman's boy," now a truly successful grown man with a family of his own, and I wrote on some social media wall, "I knew your dad..." It was such an old man's move. Kind of pathetic in a way - but with hopefully an "understood side" of sweet geezer nostalgia.
At first, there was no response.
(I mean can you blame the kid???) Geezer alert.
Then, as if the veil between worlds began to lift, I heard back,
"How did you know my dad?..."
It's been a slow-going process - but a good one. I've found a way to (hopefully) share a few pictures and (hopefully) not overshare a few of my memories of Herman with Herman's boy. I know it's been a lot of years. I know that Herman's been gone a while now. I'd essentially lost contact with Herman before the young man was born. I sure as Hell didn't want to offend him or scare him off.
I just needed to honor my friend. I just needed to tell his son what he already knows and that is how very proud his father would be of him. The young man doesn't need this - at least not at the level I do. It's just my way of bringing it all home - for me - and of remembering a great friend from a long time ago. It's that moment in time when the sons become the fathers.
Rest in peace, Herman Wanner. You were a good man. YOU WOULD BE SO PROUD OF YOUR SON.
This Caveman won't soon forget you.
Part Two: Sundance
Almost concurrently, I found myself pulled back in time again. This time the year was 1990, and I was sick. Well, I wasn't so much sick as I had had an operation and was laid up for a couple of weeks recuperating. I worked in the automobile business, and anyone familiar with that treacherous trade can tell you that have to be pretty f'd up to get a damn day off let alone a couple of weeks to repair yourself from surgery. If they give you the time off (at least in my case) it just means that they are saving the work for you for when you return. Nothing like stacks of bad credit car deals or f'd up auto leases to await your re-entry into the world of auto business shenanigans, right?
At the time the dealership I worked for (which truly was one of the most honest ones around) had hired a sales consultant. His name was "Brad" - and he was WAY bigger than life. Oh, he wasn't "bigger" in the physical sense but he was loud and forward and brash and ambitious and he had a slogan that he wanted to infuse into all of our "auto dealings" with the customers purchasing cars and the banks who would (hopefully) give us a loan for that car.
His slogan and required mantra was:
"I'll be preferred..."
It's hard to describe the purpose of the slogan. Its ultimate goal was to get the customer to repeat that mantra back to you as you (unbeknownst to the customer) jammed them (or the bank) into purchasing overpriced items and products he or she didn't need. It was the ultimate in near sleight of hand forced consumerism by effectively increasing a desire for the product and convincing the customer of the product's so-called value - and that "they" would be somehow "left out" (hence "not-preferred") if they didn't purchase said products...
Yeah, it was a lot. Brad was a lot.
For me, it was anathema. Frickin' poison.
I didn't know who this guy Brad Bauman was and I didn't want anything to do with him. I was convinced that all his gaslighting, glad-handing, and extreme braggadocio were only going to get me fired. I either had to adapt and adjust to his way of thinking and his selling methods or I needed to get lost. It was a tough time for me ideologically and philosophically. That's one thing about the automobile business. You'd best leave all your philosophical consumerism behind and embrace your inner thief. If you don't you'll just get sacked one way or another.
Brad was the consummate salesman.
And he was damn good at it.
The trouble was - I liked the guy. And believe it or not, he liked me. Talk about opposites.
Brad seemed to get me on some level and that his whole "I'll be preferred..." sales mantra was never going to play well for me - and indeed, that I would probably always be super shitty at it. I was. But that didn't stop Brad. Brad could see that I had other talents. Brad could tell that I was "relationship-based" and that if I had any strength at all in the car business it was in building relationships with banks to buy shitty loans for the folks that had been stuffed into cars they wanted but products and interest rates they didn't need (or deserve).
And I wasn't half bad at it. What can I say? I know how to grovel appropriately.
But believe me - there was so much more to Brad than any of this. He was a good dude who knew how to foster what was good or talented in anyone. He was supportive. He was encouraging. He gave a shit too - like when he knocked on the door of my home that day in 1990 to check on me and see how I was doing. Nobody else did. Nobody else gave a shit. They just wanted me back at work slogging through their shitty deals and trying to make chicken salad out of chicken shit.
To be fair, Brad wanted me back at work too. He was just smarter than the rest of them because he knew how to get things done. He knew that actually giving a shit bought more favors.
He could also give a shit about someone else without wanting something in return. He knew being genuine was always the best bet.
The truth is, Brad became my most unlikely advocate.
He was also my most unlikely friend.
So this past week or so, that is about the same time I found out about Herman (see part one) I found out about Brad. Brad, like Herman, had died (unbeknownst to me) a couple years back. It was about then that I remembered that sometime around 1990 Brad had had a son.
And that son's name was "Sundance." Look at this great kid!
As with Herman, I let the years carry Brad away from me. As with Herman, I found myself reaching out to a young person, the son of a man who'd been kind to me and a big influence in my life. I found myself reaching out to their descendants "extensions" of them living in the now and well past my time with their fathers from long ago. I found myself looking for Sundance.
I wanted to find Brad's son - I needed closure. I needed to "tell Brad" thank you - through his eldest, his first-born descendant.
Yeah, I know I'm a little weird.
So I reached out - and I found this great crazy passionate young man. I found a young man every bit and as genuine as his father was - the man I once knew. The man I once called my friend.
I found Sundance.
He's a DJ in San Francisco. He does European techno-style music at different venues. What's been even better is that he's been so gracious to this old friend of his father from 1990. He's been kind enough to send me invites to some of his techno DJ performances in the city. Imagine that, a geezer like me hanging out with the techno music crowd.
Maybe he needs to feel connected too.
Sundance is every bit his father's son. He's bright, passionate, driven, and compassionate. I am so honored to be able to speak of his father with him. I'm so honored to be able to be able to finally pay my respects to Brad even this many years later by making a respectful acquaintance of his son and his direct lineage.
Thanks for everything, Brad. Thanks for giving me a voice when nobody else cared to hear me or listen. Thanks for 1990! Thanks for letting me get to know your boy, Sundance. Thanks for letting me say goodbye.
Rest in peace dude. Our times were good!
☮️
So I ask myself, will someone care enough to reach out to me through my descendants when that day comes? Will I have done right?
Will how I lived my life matter to someone else?
I wonder.
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