Perhaps it all goes back to a child’s stinging tears

The Quack

I went from being a boy collecting acorns to a man burning up inside with a pain that can never be talked about

My new Midwest, somewhat distant neighbors think different things about me. I’m an aging rockstar, a forgotten Joe Cocker looked after by his daughter, living a drug-abuse lifestyle. I don’t have friends anymore, having left that kind of world. Then there’s the opinion I’m a disgraced monk, having sinned, buying wine for the bishop and his clerics. I’m not sure which rumor I like best.

Jenny, my wife, does have a Nordic beauty about her. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut steak and often mistaken for my daughter. More so now, having been hit by a wrecking ball before Christmas or fallen down the stairs. But, of course, the wrecking ball is more romantic; let’s go with that.

I’ve never really enjoyed neighbors, having lived without their nuisance for many years. I’m seriously not an interesting person, which is why I like to write. Unfortunately, less than attractive, I’ve become the old fart I often have written about, drinking endless cups of coffee in the morning and hardly ever removing my prescriptive glasses till whiskey time.

I do, however, have a knack for meeting fascinating people, more by luck than design. The ones I’ve met by design were more powerful, more successful, more ruthless, more charming than anyone I met by chance. Still, they were never as interesting as those encountered by luck.

In his eighties, one such man is Bruce, a psychiatrist by profession and one of the most fucked up men I ever met. But he’s interesting. It was a stroke of luck or my wife’s genius that we met. Some people preach the wisdom of never wasting words.

That is not Bruce. He preaches the art of being open and encourages those he meets to let the words fly. It’s hard to describe the man, other than to say if you saw a picture of a Navaho Indian from the 1870s, you’d see Bruce, complete with a knotted hairband.

He’s an art collector; in fact, he has an obsession with art, all things weird and occasionally wonderful. It makes him, well, interesting. Tom, his wife, is a thoughtful, outward-going chap who enjoys being in the kitchen. When with Bruce, I watch Tom deal with each storm that arises.

Hurricane or not, Bruce explained how Tom finds a way to deal with any issue with a confident, loving decorum, or in another way he calls, ignore Bruce.

Most days, I suspect they enjoy good wines and deal with a modest hangover. Bruce means a lot to me. If he were living in Edinburgh, I’d simply refer to him as a quack, in a comedic-loving way. However, I suspect he knows my darkest secret.

I find a paled greatness in Bruce, enjoying the splendor of his heart while he listens to me talk about the different furnaces burning up inside me. He is a subtle tactician, quieting the flames with what ultimately feels like kisses.

He sits in his armchair, wearing slippers, hushing the dog, and drives the conversation by listening, calling in any worries, welcoming on every wall, grotesque or some might call stunning metalwork sitting on flat surfaces.

On the unoccupied couch lies an open book. Bruce will go back to it when I’ve left.