Staring in to the abyss........

There is a consequence to surrendering your anonymity when you write. When your face and name become attached to the writing, every single word has the potential to incite anger, hurt feelings, and create tension in the circle of people who know you, your family, friends, and foes. It really makes no difference if you do it for a living, a hobby, or just for the love of watching your thoughts unfold, at some point in time, you will be faced with a choice.

A choice has to be made, either you avoid anything of a personal nature, parse your words, analyze everything you write, discarding anything that might cause a rift, or you let it spill out, the chips falling where they may. Anyone who writes, free from the cloak of anonymity, will eventually arrive at a crossroads. Let it out, or leave it be. This is one of those times, one of those decisions on which path to take. If you are reading this , I guess you know which one I chose. As of right this minute, I'm still not sure myself.

Over the past couple of months Ive heard the talk. It started out delivered as a half assed punchline, a subject that people jokingly make reference to, the humor intended to assuage the harsh reality of life and death, the unstoppable forward progress of time. "He's starting to lose it", "He got lost driving home", usually followed by an uncomfortable chuckle, a half hearted attempt to make a joke. Not out of disrespect, or an absence of concern, more like a nervous tic brought on by the inability to make things, better.

The reports, once sporadic became more frequent, the murmurs became a constant hum, and no attempt to laugh it off, or explain it away, could smooth the hard edged reality of it all. "He doesn't remember people", " He shuffles when he walks", " He poured a bucket of water in the deep fryer". The hum will one day soon become a roar, and his mind will be completely gone to where ever Alzheimer's takes it.

And you can't help but wonder at the cruelty of it all.

I've only seen my Uncle a handful of times since I got out of prison in January of 2000. The first couple of times he seemed naturally older, a little smaller, but he was still the same guy, still one of the people I admired most in my life, he was still a hero. Long before the word was run into the ground, Jimmy Ray had it, Swagger. Not the bullshit generic version that every clown with a gold chain and a loud mouth professes to have, but real honest to god swagger. When I was a kid I wanted to be just like him. He would hold court in one of the booths at his restaurant on the corner of Gregory and Prospect. One day he was shooting the bull with a couple of Homicide Detectives, the next day it might be a genuine enforcer , or the guy who ran a craps game and hookers out of the second floor of his Prospect Avenue barber shop. From cops to killers, pimps to mechanics, they all had one thing in common. They loved Jimmy Ray. He had their ear, and more importantly and to the point, he had their respect. He was a white man running a restaurant in a high crime black neighborhood, in 30 plus years he was only robbed once. When the 7/11 next door was knocked over on a near daily basis, only once did someone rob his place. After word got around, it never happened again.

While I was busy fucking up my life, I'd call him for bail money, or if I was in a jam, and he would help me out. When I was in my early twenties, after he closed his place down we would sometimes make the rounds, 3 or 4 different bars along Wornall road, where Sinatra and Bennett played on constant loops, dimly lit, a haze of smoke hanging above the bar like a cloud. He drank Chivas and water, smoked Winston 100's, hair lightly oiled, combed straight back against his head, tight and never out of place. He had that natural coolness, like a Jackie Gleason or Dean Martin, he never posed or tried to look cool, he just was.

A couple of years ago he was robbed by some young thugs, they got the drop on him in his front yard in Waldo. He was pistol whipped, had his jaw broken, closer to 80 than he was to 70. It was big news at the time, not because of who he was, but because of where it happened, and the sheer violence of the crime. News crews parked in front of his home, the reporter describing how this man in his 70's was robbed and beaten. it was hard to reconcile those events as having happened to him. If it had happened 5 or 10 years earlier, they would probably been reporting a different outcome. He never really recovered, and some of the people who should have stepped up, myself included, let him down. He still went to his new place every morning to open up, he fought through that shit, he kept doing his thing, he was that kind of guy.

I've seen him two, maybe three times in the last couple of years. Each time he looked a little older, a little more tired, but he always recognized me, and his voice still had that easy Jackie Gleason type coolness to it. Now, if I believe everything I'm hearing, he might not recognize me at all. When I first started hearing he was slipping, I called bullshit, didn't want to believe it, I couldn't. Now, no longer able to ignore and deny, the humming has become a roar, truth and time won't be denied.

If I was a better man, I'd go see him, but I'm not and I won't. I don't want to know how it feels to not be recognized, I can't bear to hear the words. If I have one saving grace, it's my willingness to embrace my flaws and character defects. I own my own shit, as ugly as it may be, I don't try to make it anything it's not, I don't try to dress it down or play it off. My Jimmy Ray still drives a long white caddy, he still dresses in black clothes that come all the way from New York. His hair still lays down perfectly, his wrap around shades still show me my reflection. He is still the coolest guy I've ever known. He is beautiful, and that's how I'm leaving it. I tell myself he would want it that way. His pride and dignity should be left intact. He wouldn't want anyone to witness his rapid descent. But that ain't the truth. The truth is much more simple, and ugly. When we watch those we love and admire grow old and frail, we come face to face with our own mortality. Nietzsche said" When you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back at you". I guess that sums it up. I owe him better , but that's one debt I just can't find in myself to pay. If he taught me nothing else, at least I've learned to own my own.