Don't Look Back

 

Taken on Christmas Eve, ^ this is the last picture I got of my dad. He was never a big fan of posing for pics, so I'm glad he obliged here. My niece and mom said "Cheese" with gusto while dad was quiet. The cancer was getting increasingly painful. I think he knew it might be his last Christmas. That worry was in the back of my mind as I captured this image. 

When we gathered for Christmas at my brother's house the next day, I didn't coax the family into a group pic, dad in front. I regret that... Dad handed out a $100 bill to his kids, grandchildren, and my sister-in-law's son and his girlfriend. With a diagnosis of what turned out to be terminal cancer, his energy depleting, he was generous to the end. He kept his tradition of giving, putting his family before himself on his final Christmas. 

I cry a few times a week thinking about him. The job I have now requires constant motion, so I can kind of use the grief as kinetic energy--but I still cry a good amount. 

If you've ever seen Breaking Bad or Better Call Saul, you know Mike Ehermantraut, the bald and stoic tough old man who fixes problems (sometimes violently) for the Gus Fring criminal empire. Mike does ruthless things, but his character is redeemed by his relationship with his granddaughter. Watching a lot of Saul on Netflix, every time he shares a moment with the little girl, reading her a book before bedtime or quizzing her on elementary math, I tear up. It shreds my chest cavity thinking that my dad's not around to cherish his 2 grandkids anymore. 

Today I slept in way too late. I found that my brother and niece were visiting my mom in my temporary home here. I was embarrassed by the time of day. I spotted a small baseball glove on the living room floor, with a softball inside. Wanting to make amends for wasting too many hours of sunlight on a sunny Sunday, I got my glove from the garage. My niece accepted my offer to play catch with me in the backyard.  

We tossed the ball back and forth, about 15 feet apart. I lofted the ball as soft as I could, aiming for her outstretched glove. She dropped more than she caught, but she's improving. Sometimes she wanted to switch up the routine by "fielding grinders." I laughed and told her it's "grounders." 

I got that shredded feeling in my chest cavity. A mental image came to me. Dad was behind me lounging on the patio, leaning back in a lawn chair, watching us. In my mind's eye, I saw him--wearing sunglasses and his Brewers hat. Relaxed in his upright posture, smiling his thin, understated, genuine smile. He was watching the 2 of us toss the ball back and forth. 

I became choked up saying something like "You don't have to be afraid of the ball. I know you can catch it, every time." 

In reality, the back patio was deserted. I didn't want to turn around. The image remained vivid. On the verge of tears, I was seeing 2 people/ 2 perspectives at once. 

I thought to myself: "Don't look back. Don't look back." 

The Opposite of Cancer

I'm going to spend a half hour writing here and post whatever comes out. It's been 2 and a half months since we lost my dad. No one else has made me feel the permanence of death like Bill has. I suppose I'm lucky to have avoided the power of this feeling until my late 30s. But damn, I've also got to live in the now, and it hurts. 

With breakdowns in my past, I decided the best way to dodge another one was to move back home to spend time with my mom and family. I'm not too sentimental about Fond du Lac, but I had no reason to stay in Appleton commuting to Neenah to work a job I despised. 

Sales support rep for a brand of bathtubs. If it wasn't telemarketing, I don't get how it was any different. I had to spam folks with voicemails about the bathtubs if they didn't answer the phone, for up to 18 days before giving up. If someone did answer, which happened about a fifth of the time, I had to sidestep the inevitable question: "About how much does this bathtub cost?" Holy shit, I dreaded hearing the words "ballpark price." Giving a price range was off limits. The aim was to set up a free in-home consultation. Setting up 100 appointments in a month led to a $100 bonus, which I never got. 

It was mind-numbing repetition, an eight-hour tunnel of dread for me. The system wasted so much time by design, with an emphasis on quantity over quality. It was obnoxious and tone deaf. I struggled with self-loathing feeling like a nuisance. I felt like a prank caller with no sense of humor. I complained to my team leader (a great guy who had to do his job by defending the job itself) but I couldn't get transferred to another company. What I did for a living was so depressing. 

Then my dad found out he had cancer. They caught it late. The disease spread quickly, up and down from his lungs, got into his bones. He called me about his diagnosis 2 weeks before Christmas. He died on Groundhog Day. 

The day before the end, he insisted on going to the hospital. He was suffering and needed treatment. They had no beds available... Here I don't want to misreport. It doesn't change anything to dig into the facts from those who were with him that day. But I doubt he wanted to go home in the shape he was in. I know that he was driven home by family. He collapsed in the garage. Had to be helped onto a blanket set on the floor and dragged to his recliner. The blanket thing was Bill's idea. My mom, brother, and aunt dragged him across the kitchen floor. Got him propped up with great effort. 

The night of February 1st, they told me Dad had said in his withered voice, "I can't do this anymore."

So the family got him home hospice care. My sister called me the morning of February 2nd. She told me this might be the day we had to say goodbye. Be prepared for it.  

I was numb driving south to Fond du Lac. You know that feeling of needing to go somewhere you don't want to go at all, but having nowhere else to go? That was it. 

Dad couldn't communicate anymore. The time before when I visited, in mid-January, I got a croaky "love you" out of him. That helps. He couldn't even talk on Groundhog Day. He was stricken with pain. He embodied pain on his last day. He just kept fighting in agony until all 4 kids and 2 grandkids arrived to see him. He knew he was dying. His eyes blue eyes fluttered, knowing it was coming, not knowing what to make of it. He wanted the mercy. We all did. But not until he could see all of us, knowing this was it. 

A hospital bed was delivered to the house. It had controls to adjust the angles at the back and by the legs, to keep him as comfortable as possible. No IVs, no medical equipment, no nurses or doctors. Hospice workers helped us lift him from the couch to the bed set up in the living room. He was going to die in his living room and that was that. 

We had painkillers to feed him. Every few hours. The oxycodone could be smashed and ground into a powder, sucked into a little plastic eyedropper thing, and shot into his mouth. I did this a few times with trembling hands and a mind that was completely scattered. 

The morphine was different. No grinding it. He had to swallow those suckers, which was a problem. A choking hazard for a dying man. 

My brothers, sister, nephew, and niece left at about 7. I could barely function. I was drinking Coors Lights slowly to numb the pain of intense grief. Pre-grief? God, just bring him peace. Make the suffering end, I thought. 

My cousin called at a quarter to 8. Bill was her favorite uncle. Was he really close to the end? Could she visit us? 

I played Beach Boys for Bill. My mom spoke into his ear during "God Only Knows." A little after 8, three of us gathered around him. I told him I was going to feed him a painkiller. He'd have to gulp it down. I set the pill in his mouth. It stayed there. It dawned on me that he was totally silent and still. 

There was no heart monitor or machines to beep the sound of a flat-lined pulse. I placed my ear by his mouth, heard and felt no breath. I told my mom and cousin I think he might be gone. I checked his pulse. Nothing. Placed my ear against his chest. Heard no heartbeat. I felt a new level of dumb numbness, realizing I had to pronounce my father dead... 

This might go on for over a half hour! I'll keep going. I'm going to jump around to other things. 

If I could find something positive about losing a loved one, it's that now I can compare any adversity or heartbreak life gives me to watching my dad pass away. I can compare challenges that make me anxious or miserable to having a front-row seat to my dad's death. 

Grief can easily wreck the strongest of us and it will always be with me. Me and my depression, chemical imbalance, and loneliness. 

But I know that was the hardest thing I've ever been through--and I'm surviving it. And all the hardships since losing Dad have been trivial in comparison. Why would I fear a first date or feel embarrassed about being a custodian again to make money for a new chapter? What kind of chickenshit pranks does life have in store for me that are going to be harder to face than the death of my hero right before my very eyes? 

I've also seen the reality of terminal cancer... It's a remorseless thing. My dad was a proud man with a high threshold for pain. Cancer hit him like an onslaught of wrecking balls. I saw cancer take my dad's life with frightening focus and speed. It had no compassion, no soul. The evil thing had a job to do and it worked with stunning efficiency. It was brought to life for no reason other than to kill. Not a moment to waste on mercy. 

I'll end this rant by stating what I've learned from that remorseless killer. 

Humans can't be like that. We need to be the opposite of cancer. Unlike that evil thing, remorseless in nature, we have a choice. We can have compassion and mercy. We can help each other get through the suffering. And if we act like cancer, if we accept or even promote the uncaring destruction of humanity, then we don't have a fucking chance. On top of all the other mounting problems??? Yeah, then we're doomed and we don't have a prayer. 

I can't say I blame someone who has seen cancer take their loved one for giving in to the bitterness, for shutting compassion down because it leads to love, which only leads to pain, so why bother with this weakness of caring? (Shit, it kind of freaks me out that now I totally get that mindset.) But it takes more courage to strive to be the opposite of cancer. It's harder to be selfless when our survival is a selfish deal, when you think about it. But I'd rather be the opposite of that killer no matter what--even if it's a losing battle.  

Speech for Dad

 

The most important thing I want to say about my dad is that I grew up in a home with six unique personalities—and his bottom line was unconditional love. He made us feel supported and loved no matter what. He was never preachy about that; he just quietly walked the walk of a true family man. He was an excellent dad, then an excellent grandpa—and I don’t think I ever heard him brag.

He was wise and made smart choices, and he was always humble, never arrogant. He was helpful and so kind, but also tough and determined. He took care of himself and had the drive to help and protect others.

I have three stories to tell out of a million and three. We appreciate the local police department for which dad served, and we owe a debt of gratitude to his colleagues for being there for my family. As a funny twist though, when I went to my car the morning after dad passed in his home on 18th St., on my windshield I found a $30 fine for parking on the wrong side of the street. It gets better: On Saturday, I looked up the last text I ever got from dad, from late November: “Nick, park over on the right side of the driveway, winter ordinance is in effect.” He knew the rules. He was one step ahead.

My dad was in rough shape at the end, but as a reminder of his true heroic nature, especially for his beloved grandkids, I want to tell you that I got a T-ball set for my nephew when he was two years old. That summer we introduced Kaden to baseball in my mom and dad’s backyard. One sunny afternoon, dad put on a show and had himself a homerun derby, lofting the plastic ball in the air, quickly composing his batting stance, and clobbering that ball over the house onto the front yard in a high-arcing shot. He was in his 60s, still hitting dingers.

Finally, we all got to say goodbye on his last day. Knowing it was a matter of time, my brothers and sister went back to their homes in Fond du Lac. Visiting from Appleton, I stayed the night. We played some music for dad: The Beach Boys. “Wouldn’t It Be Nice,” “Good Vibrations”... “God Only Knows” played, and my mom spoke to my dad, me in the other room. He was gone in less than a half hour.

The next day, Tim and Winnie visited. I told my niece that papa was in heaven now. She smiled and agreed. I told her we played music for him. Immediately, my eight-year-old niece said “The Beach Boys?” At about the same time Wednesday night, far across town, they had decided to honor Bill with the same music.

God only knows what we’d be without you, dad. Thank you for 70 years of greatness. We love you so much.

2/7/22

^I have pics posted on the wall of my work cube to cheer me up. This is dad and me a few years back on my birthday, celebrating in the Olig family dining room. With the mini typewriter, I cycle through a number of quotes. I just realized it was all set up so that dad is pointing at the Serenity Prayer.

This One's Got Pictures

 

...would not exist without edits and support from Eric Theis (most chapters), Brian Ridley (16, 17, 28, 30, 33), Sister Claire (8, 17), and Neighbor Beth (34). You made some good stuff better, which it needed to be. Thanks! 

I also need to credit all the friends who are quoted, pictured, or fictionalized in this book. Joel, Ian, Ray... Plus the H2Bro crew of Matt, Willow, Chris, Bill, Max, Josh, Bryan, Kat, and Jeff. I can't forget Jake, Jason, Jen, and Amanda. I asked all of you to be characters in my stories, and none of you Maced me. In fact, you said yes--which was really quite lovely. 

My mom and dad have never failed in making me feel unconditionally loved. My two brothers and sister learned a lot from them, and we return the gift of unconditional love to our parents, each other, my nephew and niece, my sister-in-law--the whole family. Hugs City. 

Pat, Niki, Seth, Ben, Al, Beth & Mike (Go Pack Go), Nick, Sabrina, OE, Boone, the Fergs--consider yourselves thanked for being great friends. 

Dammit, now the orchestra's trying to shoo me offstage. Typical orchestra bullshit. 

My Uncle John set the bar high for uncles everywhere, and he helped me get writing opportunities at the Shepherd Express. Thanks to Tyler and Matt W. at Milwaukee Record too. You're outrageously talented and hardworking. 

Pam, you're the best teacher of all time. Just one man's opinion. Briana, if every writer needs a counselor, I'm glad I got the best. 

Shoutout to my exes! My initials are NO. I could see that being a red flag. I'm thankful for the time we shared. Sorry about the crappy stuff. 

Will you give it a rest with the violins, orchestra?! We're trying to have a moment here. 

OK, in the Venn diagram of reader and writer, I hope we've got some overlap. 

Much love to Colin and the Bares family. This book is dedicated, with tears of appreciation for the life she lived, to Mary Bares. 

But wait, it gets sadder. On Groundhog Day of 2022, my dad passed. That's the hardest thing I've ever had to accept. I'm wrecked. I promised my dad we'd be strong without him. I'm gonna honor that promise even when I don't feel like it. 

 

Let's Dance.

Saved by the Blue Ribbon

 

When Joel is asked to pick the most interesting thing that happened to him on December 28th, 2013, he feels the answer is obvious.

“I got shot. By a bullet.” He pauses, grins, and adds, “From a gun.”

That marked the first and only time he has been shot by a bullet from a gun, but compared to what transpired next, that part of the story is pretty mundane. Ultimately, Joel got shot by a bullet from a gun, sure, but the impact was minimal. It just made a bruise. Joel was saved. By a Pabst Blue Ribbon belt buckle... From his wardrobe.

###

When I call Joel from the parking lot of a Piggly Wiggly, I know his new place is nearby, but I'm lost and frustrated by the task of finding a farmhouse in the darkness. He says not to worry and gives me directions, even rides on his four-wheeler a good distance to the highway to ensure that I won't drive past Gudex Lane a second time.

We chat before the interview. His Miniature Pinscher Alice Malice trots beside him as we feed sticks to a bonfire that illuminates a fraction of the surrounding countryside. We go inside the garage when it starts to drizzle. Plus that's where he keeps the mini-fridge.

Joel is known for his love of punk rock, but I've also seen him croon along with Dean Martin at parties. On this occasion, however, he's got satellite radio tuned into a classic rock station. I leaf through my notebook and crack open a Pabst. As he loads charcoal into a grill, I hear him singing along to a Billy Joel lyric: “I never said I was a victim of circumstance.”

We were going to see about that as soon as I pressed the record button. Minutes later, I did.

“My mind reels thinking about what percentage of your body was shielded by the belt buckle,” I say. “It's got to be less than one percent, right?”

“I'd say less than one tenth of one percent,” Joel estimates. “And you've got to keep in mind, the bullet didn't come in and hit the belt buckle like it was a shield. It came in from the side. What stopped it was that little metal loop, that ring that holds the buckle to the belt. Which is even crazier. That's two fucking millimeters of metal instead of the whole credit card-sized thing.”

This reveal did nothing to steady anyone's reeling mind. Joel explained: On his walk home from the Main Pub in Fond du Lac, he was headed north when he “heard a bunch of shouting coming up from the intersection" of Main and Second. Moments later, he saw two combative groups, one comprised of three African-Americans and the other of two Caucasians. (Joel later learned that the dispute centered on a young woman. Sounds about right.) Somebody had brandished a firearm, which was really stupid. Sensing trouble, his two friends pulled him away from the fray, pleading, “Come on, let's go!” The two Caucasians who stood outside of a bar on Second Street took exception to the display of a deadly weapon. “I can't believe you just did that!” one shouted. And so they actually pursued an angry, gun-wielding drunk. It cannot be overstated that this too was a stupid thing to do.

Stuck unwittingly in the cross hairs of bar-time idiocy, Joel proceeded on his way. He spotted a flickering red dot aimed from one faction to the next. The duo crossed the street to confront the trio. Then Joel heard a POP.

“I knew right away it was a gun,” he says. “'Cause I shoot guns for a hobby. I knew it wasn't a .22, 'cause I know the difference between the sounds they all make. I figured it was a nine-millimeter. Ends up being a .380.”

It's worth relaying that the incident had no discernible impact on Joel's feelings about guns. He's still quite fond of them, as evidenced by his recent Facebook post about his assassination of a can of shaving cream.

“So, I'm like, 'Holy shit, that was a fucking gunshot,'” he goes on. “As I'm processing that, I heard the second shot. And I immediately felt it.”

The man with the .380 had lousy aim. The bullet pierced the cold night air at a speed of about a thousand feet per second with Joel in its way.

“I just stood there, putting pressure against that area, 'cause I wasn't sure if I was bleeding or not. And I got so pissed off. 'Seriously?! That's how this shit's going down?' Finally, I was scared to look, but I pulled up my jacket... and the belt buckle fell down. The bullet fell out behind it.”

This inanimate hunk of metal that might have saved his life fascinates me.

“Do you have the belt buckle now?” I inquire.

“Nope, it's still sitting in the evidence locker at the police station.” He mentions the shooter, who was quickly caught and remains incarcerated. “Mr. Williams has exercised his right to appeal.”

“Just to keep the belt buckle away from you?”

“Absolutely,” he deadpans. “I have little doubt he's being paid by Blatz.”

“How did you obtain the belt buckle?”

“I forget if it was a birthday present or a just-because present, but it was from an ex-girlfriend.”

A “just-because present”? She must be somebody else's keeper. Here we have proof of the adage: “'Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.” I forget who said that, but I do know that Joel is a Trekkie, so let's just say it was Captain Kirk.

“Let me lay this on you,” I begin. “Would it be practical of them to make body armor out of Pabst belt buckles?”

“Well, I think it's clear that it worked once,” he allows.

It's not practical. We discuss other matters. Like beer.

“After that crazy night, what did that ensuing Pabst taste like?”

“That happened at about 6:30 in the morning when the detective dropped me off from the cop shop after they questioned me,” he recalls. “Cracked open a beer and stayed up until noon, 'cause I wasn't tired anymore. Walking through that door... I can feel it, right now. The joy. I was OK, and I was getting dropped off at my house, not the hospital.”

(Mere hours after his moment of joy and relief, he was ambitiously hunted down by a crew from Fox 11 News, causing Joel to tell them, “We should have sent you fuckers after bin Laden!”)

“Did you get any free Pabst?” I ask.

“I was hoping for at least a year's supply. Or just give me a PBR credit card that's only good for Pabst,” he says. “But I got a box with a sweatshirt and a Frisbee and shit like that. Some socks...”

“You got a Frisbee out of the deal?!”

“Yeah, it was the kind of trivial shit they give to everybody. I'm not sour about it... But my buddy sent in his fucking artwork to Pabst, and he got the same box of shit. And it was just Clip Art! I mean, he arranged it quite nicely and there was definitely some skill involved, but Goddammit, I got shot.”

To get back to that unbelievable gunshot, consider this: Joel's chasm between good luck and bad was a matter of two inches. Had the bullet sped in that much lower, it’s in the dick zone. But it narrowly missed his manhood, so the tone of our talk was a hell of a lot more cheerful.

“I'd like to thank gravity for holding that thing out of the way,” he declares.

If it were me, I'd also thank the Polar Vortex that made that winter so bitter cold. Smaller target! Joel had to give his pants to the detective who drove him home at dawn, and as his parting line, one of Fond du Lac's finest couldn't resist zinging a dick joke, either. Joel can't remember it, but I'd wager the setup was: “Joel, a Pabst belt buckle, and a dick walk out of a bar...”

Onto more mature stuff.

“Do you know anyone with a story similar to yours?” I ask. “Is there a support group?”

“I did read about one because I'm only human. I Googled. There was only one other guy. Some gas station clerk in Pennsylvania, maybe six months before my shooting. Except it was a regular belt.”

Someone else comes to mind. A cartoon character. In the “Homie the Clown” episode of The Simpsons, Ned Flanders is shot twice by sniper fire meant for Homer. Flanders is saved both times. First by a Bible he keeps over his heart and then by a piece of the true cross...

“Christ,” Joel snickers. “I was waiting for you to bring up The Simpsons.”

I have a reputation.

“You're saying the belt buckle was like my Bible/cross?” Joel asks. That is what I’m saying. “Well, I do love Pabst, but Ned Flanders was the last thing on my fucking mind. I know with you, it'd be the first thing on your mind.”

Gracefully or not, we were on the topic of faith, which led to the question I most wanted to ask him.

“Do you think what happened was a case of divine intervention or extraordinary luck?”

“Personally, I chalk it up to fucking luck,” he says unsentimentally. “Had I been a step behind or a step ahead, it wouldn't have hit me. I almost find it to be bad luck. But a lot of people chalk it up to divine intervention. You remember Eric Dietrich?”

“Eric was the tie that bound his friends together. His smile and unique sense of humor touched the lives of everyone he met. He is greatly missed.”

That’s an excerpt from his obituary. He passed away on November 15th, 2008. Eric and Joel were kindred souls.

“Everybody says, ‘Eric was looking out for you.’ But I don't believe in God. I don't believe in the afterlife. With Eric, though… maybe I’d make an exception for him. I like to believe that if anyone is out there, it's him. It’s a struggle, because he was my best friend, so I'd like to think he was there. But at the core, I don’t believe in that stuff—and scientific, tangible evidence tells me that I’m right.”

“Yeah, but not everything is tangible,” I say.

“Absolutely,” he says. “And that’s why there’s so much… gray area.”

He lets out an exhausted laugh as he says these last two words. He smears his palm against his face, troubled by the mystery more so than most of us. It’s a lot easier to ask questions about the unknowable than to answer them, and so I change the subject.

“Are you a big hero?” I ask. “Or the biggest hero?”

“Pffft! I wouldn't call myself a hero because I didn't protect anybody. But if I was forced to call myself a hero, what the hell, I'd call myself the biggest hero.”

Well played! Who could argue with that?

###

On the drive home I dwell on Joel’s rejection of the miracle more so than anything else. He’s right about science and luck, but I feel empty wishing there was more. I want to believe in miracles like kids and saints do. Whether it’s salvation by a beer belt buckle or God, sometimes it pays to have faith in the unlikely.

When I listen to the playback of our interview, I notice Tom Petty in the background commanding, “Breakdown, go ahead and give it to me” at about the same time I ask my first question. “Big Shot” cues while Joel describes what it’s like to be shot. Choir boys begin singing “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” in angelic falsettos as he mourns his lost friend.

My bright, gruff, tough, hilarious, Pabst-swigging pal would probably chalk that up to coincidence. Whereas a daydreaming dope like me craves a deeper meaning. I can’t fall asleep that night until I replay part of his take on faith:

“If there's a Goddamn God and you believe in God, then fuck off and let Him take care of it.”

The Gospel according to Joel. Pabst be with you.

Lucky Ones from New Orleans

Willy, Swinkle, silver street weirdo. 2005.

We were talking about one of the worst natural disasters in U.S. history when a funny topic arose. A thousand miles south of Fond du Lac, Swinkle was reminiscing into his phone outside of a restaurant in New Orleans.

“Willy had ordered a hammock that was supposed to be delivered on the day Katrina hit.”

“I paid for it!” Willy said.

“It was a standalone hammock, meant to replace his bed,” Swinkle said in his thoughtful drawl. “He couldn't get in touch with the company for the longest time. Then we found out a month or two afterward that the company that took forever to ship it to him was actually in New Orleans. So he was never going to get his money back.”

“Think about that,” Willy said. “It was taking them a while even though we were in the same city. And when I was supposed to finally get it, a hurricane took them out... as well as the post office, the mayor's office, and any chance of me getting my hammock.”

Ten years after Hurricane Katrina—settled with a wife, two kids, and a steady job, Willy has never realized his dream of sleeping in a hammock every night. Later in our talk it was restated that there are worse fates indeed.

###

We did the interview a half-hour later than planned. My iPhone couldn't directly record the call with Swinkle because I guess that's illegal. Willy had arrived at my apartment on time but forgot to bring his digital recorder. My backup plan was a Microcassette relic with playback that made me sound like a demon on Quaaludes. Willy called an audible and we drove to his house for his Zoom Mic, then to his mom and dad's, where his sister joined us in an upstairs bedroom. When we belatedly got through to Swinkle at 8:30, I felt a tinge of pressure to prove I was a pro.

“Uh... So, Swinkle, you were born in the south. Right?”

“Yeah, in New Orleans.”

I nailed it. All-pro talent.

Swinkle elaborated.

“As a kid, I kind of took stuff like Mardis Gras for granted, but you also knew it was like a magical place in the deep south, not like anywhere else you'd ever been.”

In the fall of 2001, Swinkle was lured upstream of the Mississippi River by recurrent wanderlust, a love of music, and a mutual friend of Willy's who played drums in their rock band Reveal. Willy and I had been pals going back to the X-Men battles of our youth, and so I was introduced to Swinkle shortly after he arrived in Wisconsin. We have been triangulated ever since.

Treasured memories, enduring bonds, and some good tunes notwithstanding, the band ran its course, and on a much heavier note, Swinkle's father passed away in August of 2004, prompting his return to the bayou to be with his family.

Willy relocated in June of 2005 with no way of knowing his timing was to be as bad as that of a certain hammock vendor. I asked him why he made that move when he was 22.

“Because there was somebody who could set up a living situation ahead of me,” Willy said. “And the main reason I moved there wasn't necessarily New Orleans. It was to get out of Fond du Lac. It wasn't exactly like running away. It was more, 'If I'm going to understand where I'm from, I have to understand what it's like to not be here.'”

Swinkle outlined how they spent their summer.

“I was working for AmeriCorps by day, and I'd lined up Willy with a job working for a contractor,” he said, referring to Ronnie, a born-again survivor of '80s decadence who had composed a dozen or so odes to God. “And we were recording crappy Christian music at night.”

(As a side note, I visited them that summer, weeks before Katrina, and witnessed a jam session in Ronnie's garage. A Ronnie line the three of us have been known to quote can be found in his critique of the material world: “I don't drink my coffee in a fancy can/ You know that I'm a simple man!”)

“It was his goal and he wanted help with it,” Willy explained. “And it just made sense for us to keep playing music.”

Amen. The time had come for me to ask about that horrible wet thing.

“Initially, how serious did you take the warnings about the tropical storm that became Katrina?”

“I'd heard mention of it a day before we left,” Swinkle said. “The truth is, you get so many hurricane warnings per season, and over 90% of the time, it comes to the fruition of a bad rainstorm. Rarely did we ever really get hit.”

A number of false alarms had led to what Willy called “desensitization.” We believe this to be a product of human nature.

“What was the definitive moment that made you realize the best plan was to get out of the city?” I asked.

“When Mayor Nagin made a televised press conference, live, seriously urging people to leave,” Swinkle said. “I had been working in gardens until four or five when my boss told me the news. I got a ride home and told Willy we probably had to get out of town.”

Evacuation was the plan, but there was an obstacle: Neither man had access to a car. Weeks after he had made the trek from Wisconsin to Louisiana with his belongings in tow, Willy had sold his 1990 Ford Escort. Swinkle's ride was being repaired at the shop; he had borrowed his ex-girlfriend's car to get to work that Saturday morning. She had since reclaimed it and fled the city. His plight seemed compounded by the fact that he'd also lost his cellphone.

Swinkle recalled: “Willy started gathering valuables, clothes, stuff we wanted to bring along and preserve. And I was on the computer, trying to find any kind of a rental, flight, bus, or shuttle.”

They were focused but perhaps overmatched. Mercy came in the form of a gracious ex.

“Luckily,” Swinkle went on, “My ex-girlfriend, who had my phone, called Willy. I'd left my phone in her car. She'd been on the road for about three hours, and was only about 15 miles out of town because traffic was so bad. She turned around and came to return the phone so I could have it, and she ended up helping us because we didn't have any other options.”

They packed into her sedan a military Duffel bag full of clothes, two acoustic guitars, some recording equipment, and most legendarily, nine lighters. Anything they couldn't stow on a plane was to be destroyed.

“I had just inherited my late father's furniture. His couches, his records. I had that material connection with my dad,” Swinkle said. “I thought, 'I can take care of his stuff now.' Then it's gone.”

Katrina took from Willy a brand-new mandolin. “She was a good girl,” he eulogized. When asked if he had christened her with a name, he deadpanned, “Amanda Lynn.”

There was no use pining over possessions as they drove to the airport where Swinkle had made reservations for a rental car. They waited in line for over two hours. Swinkle noted that “people were definitely frustrated and a little freaked out, but they were civil at that point.” When at long last the trio got to the counter, their fortune waned.

“Because my ex was not yet 25 and paying for it, they couldn't release a car to us.”

What a hassle. “Big Easy,” my ass. Furthering her sterling reputation, Swinkle's ex agreed to let our protagonists tag along on her journey three states east to Albany, Georgia, where she had family. Willy and Swinkle crashed on the couches of total strangers in the wee hours of Sunday, August 28th, 2005. Later that morning, they emptied their funds for plane tickets. In a deluge of nasty rain that foretold Katrina, the pilot of “a small puddle-jumper” worked up the nerve to fly them to Atlanta. It was the last flight the plane was to hazard that day. From Atlanta they were flown to Milwaukee's Mitchell Airport. Willy's family was there to drive them home to Fond du Lac.

That night and Monday morning, we gathered around the TV watching the news, sipping coffee, somber and shocked. This was more than a “bad rainstorm.” Katrina was the malevolent payback for all those false alarms. With winds upwards of 175 miles per hour, Katrina was a rare and ferocious category 5 hurricane. Exterior levees had been built to withstand the magnitude of a category 3. Interior floodwalls like that of the 17th St. canal were undermined by faulty engineering. The death toll exceeded a thousand in New Orleans alone. Overall damage to property is a scarcely comprehensible figure: $108 billion. New Orleans' burden was made worse by its geography; the city exists in a bowl with elevation dipping seven-to-ten feet below sea level. Flooding continued after the storm had passed. When the levees failed, the effects were catastrophic. By Tuesday, over three-quarters of the city was submerged. The Upper and Lower 9th Wards were especially decimated.

We watched images of desperate souls on rooftops or floating on mattresses from our living rooms. We saw the Superdome embroiled in a doomsday struggle from far, far away. I didn't say the obvious to my friends. “That could have been you.”

“We weren't the only people who wanted to evacuate but had very little means to do so,” Swinkle said.

“We're very lucky,” Willy agreed.

In a city of about 43,000 at the foot of Lake Winnebago, they roomed together in a spare bedroom at Willy's sister's house. Within two weeks, they realized they couldn't return to New Orleans anytime soon. They got day jobs. Swinkle in particular began to loathe the news reports, the inevitable questions from coworkers. People called them the lucky ones even though they had lost everything. I had to wonder if there was more to the story than luck.

“Do you think you benefited from divine intervention or simply good fortune?”

Willy's answer was fast.

“Before we had any knowledge of the hurricane, I remember stressing out. Thinking about how I wasn't going to be able to continue at that pace, as far as bills and income were coming along. It was a mountain of obstacles to overcome. And I had a moment of asking for divine intervention, getting on my knees and praying to God, saying that I can't do this without some help, and I will do whatever it takes.

“When I look at all the circumstances, I can't help but feel a little bit of hair standing up on end,” he continued. “I specifically asked for help. Then Swinkle left his phone in her car—and that helped us. My last paycheck, all my money, was almost the exact amount that I needed for a plane ticket. We got the last flight... I asked for divine intervention, and I think I got it."

I think an answered prayer like that speaks volumes about the madness of the world in which we live. I don't think faith or science will ever solve the ongoing mystery and it's hard to be at peace with that.

I questioned Swinkle about the city's efforts to reestablish itself.

“Being part of the rebuilding with AmeriCorps, I respect the resilience. The resilience resulted in a tighter sense of community. Not only that, but the huge outpouring of support nationally... We had college groups, church groups every week. Buses full of people taking weeks off their lives to come down and help us rebuild, and they didn't get a dime.”

“The worst nature sometimes brings out the best in people,” I said.

We were on our way to an upbeat conclusion. From Fond du Lac, Willy had his faith intact and I had an upbeat ending to an otherwise gloomy tale. (Maybe I could mix in a few more jokes! I thought selfishly.) Swinkle believed New Orleans was toughened and united by hardship... But he had something to add.

“Well, initially, Nick, it was horrible. You know, with the Superdome. One of the girls I worked with had to identify her boyfriend-of-four-years' body after he was murdered, shot point blank in the back of the head. The military and police that were established were gone. Anybody in a position of authority had bailed. The building just got taken over. So, this girl came back from the coroner's office with a dry face and told me exactly what it was like to identify her boyfriend's body, but she couldn't open up about the Superdome. Ever.”

We were left with sinking hearts and I was all out of questions. There were no jokes to lighten the mood as we changed the subject and said our goodbyes.

But it struck me as a fine illustration of the human condition and empathy. At the end of retelling their adventure, even the lucky ones had to dwell on the sorrow.