Going to Fleet Farm today
reminded me of the way
my dad used to buy me socks
when he saw they were on sale there.
And apparently
socks were on sale at Fleet
constantly.
So, I built a ridiculous surplus of socks
thanks to Bill.
My dresser drawer is very
very well-stocked with socks.
I never had the heart to say,
“Dude, enough with the socks!”
Looking back
I think “I got you socks”
was code for
“I love you.”
…
I got you socks too, dad.
Bill parked his car outside the duplex she rented. His yellow Ford Torino beamed in the summer sun. He double and triple checked the address she had scribbled on the napkin. This was the place.
Doubt crept in. What if it’s a phony address? But he had to take that chance.
He took a deep breath, checked himself in the rearview mirror. He flicked the part in his thick brown hair, fussed with the collar of his shirt. Ready as he’d ever be, he got out of his car. On the walkway to her front door, his chest heaved with great effort.
He needed a moment to straighten his posture. He spread his shoulders as best he could. He dwelled on words of wisdom for a boost.
If you want to hit a home run, you've got to swing the bat.
He rolled his eyes. Good enough.
In a quick movement, he balled his fist and knocked on her door. He heard stirring. Ruth was home.
A nervous impulse made him clear his throat loudly. He surprised himself with the noise. Oh God, he hoped she didn’t hear that. He sounded like Bigfoot choking on sandpaper.
The door swung open. Ruth appeared. Petite and pixie-haired, she tilted her head gazing at him—uncertain but then pleased a second later.
“Hi,” Bill said.
“Oh, hi Bill!”
Ruth grinned. She was ready to go on a date. But not with this guy.
###
In the summer of 1973, my mom was 19 and waitressing at Petrie’s Restaurant. A hub on Main Street in Fond du Lac, the place was thriving that July. Aside from a reprieve on Mondays, Petrie’s never closed. They served the locals breakfast, lunch, supper, and drinks at the bar. There was a banquet hall in the basement. Aromas and noises rose up through the floorboards, adding to the stew of human activity.
Mom could stay upbeat in the face of rude customers, or return kindness with the best of them. She mastered how to balance a large tray filled with sizzling prime rib and gravy while getting quizzed on the menu. She floated through the commotion with a resilient smile.
At 22, my dad was a rookie police officer who worked the overnight shift. His slim build got him the nickname Barney Fife. He didn’t let the teasing get the best of him. He was quiet and observant, but tough and poised. He would endure a line of work that’s as stressful and tense as they come for over 30 years.
Brave as he was, there were certain things that made him a little afraid.
Like asking Ruth out--yikes.
The Fond du Lac police station was a few blocks away from Petrie’s. Officers were known to stop by on their lunch breaks, and sometimes they felt inclined to chat with the servers. Or at least work up the courage to chat with one of them… the next time.
The first time Bill spoke at length to Ruth, he was off-duty. On a Saturday night, he and two cop friends went to Petrie’s to down a few rounds of beer. The men found a booth. Bill searched for her, trying to seem aloof. His heart thumped when she emerged from the kitchen, balancing a tray.
He had noticed her a month earlier. The anticipation had been building. Maybe his swagger needed a boost though.
Chats with his pals began and ended, patrons came and went, the jukebox cycled from Elton John to Diana Ross to Grand Funk Railroad and so on, and three glasses of beer were drained in front of him—and Bill still hadn’t introduced himself. She’d go floating by from time to time. He’d turn his head slightly with a quick glance, but that was all.
"The Brewers sure got whooped today," Bill said, trying to ignore the subject at the center of his mind.
"Yeah, but Baltimore had Jim Palmer on the mound," his cop friend replied optimistically. "We'll get the win tomorrow. Dave May's having a heck of a season."
Bill rolled his eyes. This amateur with his head in the clouds.
"Dave May is no Hank Aaron," he said conclusively, content that his favorite team was going to lose.
An hour later, his pals said goodnight and headed home. Beer cupped in both hands, perhaps overthinking what he wanted to say and how to say it, Bill sat in the booth alone.
Thankfully, he got an assist. Ruth was friends with an older waitress named Corky, who was something of a mentor. Corky was kind and helpful to Ruth when she was new on the job, whereas other servers and staff had snubbed her and been rude anytime she had a question in the early days of her employment.
Corky was keen to the glances of the thin man at the bar. Ruth was about to take her final break of the night. She took a seat in a booth across the room, in view of Bill. Corky gave her a nudge.
“I think he likes you,” she said, pointing to him.
Ruth inspected the young man as if she’d never even noticed him before. Bill’s baby blue peepers got wide. He straightened his spine, managed a thin smile, and froze. Ruth got his attention with a simple question.
“Do you like me?”
It took him a second to unfreeze. He gulped.
Fastball down the middle, he thought.
“Yes,” he said.
“Well,” Ruth said. “Then why are you sitting all the way over there?”
It was a valid point, he soon realized. He stood up, grabbed his mug, and took the seat beside her. She lit a Pall Mall and they got to talking. He took a long drag on her cig when she offered. By the end of her break, he got her number and address. Bill closed his tab and left a generous tip of a buck-twenty-five.
He walked to his Torino, his steps bouncing. She had given him the OK to visit sometime. Beyond that, he had no plan other than to come up with a plan. Driving home after midnight, he had Ruth and her info printed on a napkin. He rested his elbow out the window and breathed in the summer air. His hopes were soaring.
What Bill didn’t know was that earlier that night, Ruth spoke to a different man. Another bachelor. Cliff.
Some might say Cliff had a stronger approach. While Bill was a transplant from the village of Mount Calvary, Cliff was from my mom’s neighborhood, and he’d gained the approval of her parents. When the blond biker realized he liked my mom, he visited Petrie’s once or twice to dine and chat with her. He kept it casual until he calmly and decisively asked her out. His blond hair tightly groomed, clad in a black leather jacket, this was how he offered a date:
“Ruthie, have you ever been on a motorcycle?”
“No! I can’t say that I have.”
“OK, what about a plane ride?”
“Nope,” she laughed. “You got me there too.”
“Well, this Saturday, how ‘bout I pick you up on my bike, then we ride out to the Fondy airport? My brother’s a pilot. He can fly us over Lake Winnebago in his puddle jumper. You’ve got to see the view! Then I’ll have you back home by sundown. What do you say?”
She said yes. That Saturday she won the attention of two suitors. It was an accident, but someone was getting set up for a letdown.
###
Almost 50 summers later, I’m hearing the story of my parents’ first date on the back patio at my mom and dad’s house. Only, Dad is gone now. My mom sips on her Brandy Old-Fashioned and shrugs her shoulders to express, It was an accident.
I’m enthralled. I tap the side of my can of Pabst and give my two cents.
“You know, I got nothing against the miracle of flight. So, the pilot-brother is OK. But with this Cliff guy, ugh, I can’t stand motorcycles.”
“I was looking forward to the motorcycle ride,” she says, shrugging again.
“Nah, they’re overrated,” I tell her. “Totally obnoxious. Instant headache.”
“Well, your father never really liked those things either.”
“Yeah, he was smart. So! Dad’s looking overmatched here. And he had no clue he was such an underdog.”
“I guess not.”
“Well, I kind of know how the story ends. But in the long run, why did you choose him?”
“I don’t know. Something about him was just so…” she searched for the perfect word and finally found it with a sad smile. “Sweet.”
###
When Bill arrived at her door that Saturday afternoon, Ruth thought it was Cliff showing up 20 minutes early. In the bathroom, the knocking startled her and she had nearly dotted her forehead with eyeliner. She put the makeup away, checked herself in the mirror, and hurried to the entryway.
She studied him and they both said hi, as we know.
Bill had a week to craft that plan to sweep Ruth off her feet. Sure, he wasn’t going to offer the thrill of a motorcycle or the awe of aviation or an instant vote of confidence from her parents, but I knew him pretty well, and he had a few tricks up his sleeve. How did this man who would become a father of four to this woman make his big move?
He cleared his throat, casually this time. You've got to swing the bat.
“Can I go get you some McDonald’s?”
How was I even born?
Ruth was put on the spot. She had to choose between Bill and McDonald’s food or the James Dean-biker and his flyboy connections. It was no easy choice.
Actually… it was.
“Well, why don’t I just go with you?”
“To McDonald’s?”
“Yes.”
“Well, yeah!” he smiled. (I am tearing up imagining that smile.) “Let’s go there together.”
Ruth hurried back inside to get her purse. She returned to the porch. As she locked the door they both let out a quick, quiet laugh. No words were required, only the mutual buzz of beginning a first date.
Bill opened the door of his Torino. Ruth nodded at his gesture and took a seat. He got behind the wheel, feeling good as his heartbeat slowed and he no longer felt the threat of cardiac arrest. They drove to the McDonald’s Restaurant on Military Road.
Minutes later, Cliff rode up on his Ducati and parked in front of the duplex. He strode to the front door and knocked with vigor. No answer. He kept trying until he concluded no one was home. He had done nothing wrong but it wasn’t meant to be. Cliff would find his own beautiful bride someday, but on that day, my dad got the girl. And my mom was spared the unnecessary danger and splitting-headaches of a biker dude.
At the romantic hotspot of McDonald’s, the couple enjoyed burgers, fries, and Cokes. They sat at a booth in the corner and got to know each other better. Anxiety gave way to comfort, with hints of excitement. Bill even sprang for ice cream, the sly dog.
On the stroll back to his car, Bill found the courage to hold her hand. It took him a bit longer to summon it, but then he never really let it go.
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."
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.
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.
...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.
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.
