Death in Venice


I’m thinking, “My wife is going to come home and find me dead, lying naked on a Venetian floor”. And word will get back to the states “Maestrejuan dead from too much milk. The one thing he did that was healthy; killed him.” Nothing is more extraordinary than leaving your body while on vacation. I started to laugh and knew I was getting better.

A couple days earlier I had this sensation in my neck. My neck seems to be my health barometer. I always feel things first in my neck. In times of stress my neck feels tense first, and when physically taxed I can feel blood surging through my neck. I noticed the neck thing decades before when I’d take LSD. The first indicator that it was “coming on” was that I could feel the walls of my throat like a peristaltic cylinder. My acid intake was high and my neck had that hollow feeling a lot of the time.

Twenty years ago I had this pain in the base of my mouth and my neck got solid on the side like a flexed muscle and there was an awful taste like poison. A friend who was a new doctor suggested it was Aids or cancer but I knew it was neither; I wasn’t the type. Not being a doctor, I concluded it was wisdom teeth coming in, and the blood or puss or something was causing the irritation and taste. It went away for a full ten years and then came back for a few hours, only to go dormant for another decade. A few days ago it returned with a vengeance. This time my neck had swelled and produced a little golf ball sized lump at the base of my jaw.

Deborah and I had taken an apartment in Venice and everything was un-familiar there, which is the point of foreign travel, I guess. But the one domestic thing I missed was a good old-fashioned glass of American milk. Ever since I was young I drank a lot of milk. In high school kids said I would turn into a cow if I didn’t slow down. Later, as I got deeper and deeper into alcoholism, I would imagine the milk lined my stomach wall and helped keep the booze from eating away my guts. I knew this vitamin-enriched nectar was my last connection to anything nutritious; if not my only hope of salvation. It was my symbol of health. I drew power from it like Sampson drew strength from his hair. Italy had shops where you could buy “drinking milk” but it was the high-test, high-fat thick milk and I was used to non-fat back home.

Now this goiter in my neck had grown to an unprecedented tennis ball size and had cut off my ability to swallow. Then it took my ability to breathe normally and I was semi-conscious for a miserable day. Then one day Deb went out with friends, with my blessings, and I stayed behind in the flat to rest and recuperate.

They had left while I slept and had conscientiously locked the door for, I guess, my safety. When I woke, I found I was locked in with no chance for escape. I thought about tying the sheets together and shinnying down the four floors to the narrow street below. I thought about a lot of things, and drew a hot bath.

I remembered that years ago I’d gone to get my wisdom teeth pulled and was surprised to find later that only two were gone, two others were still there and caused me some intermittent pain as they went through their growth spurts; but this was ridiculous. Lying in the bath and unable to swallow, breathing shallow through my nose and unable to go out for help, I couldn’t help but thinking this might be it.

In the bath, physically drained and unable to swallow for days, a mighty thirst had developed. If I put some water in my mouth it might just sort of trickle down, slide through some unfelt opening and at least minimally hydrate me. So I pulled my weak self from the bath and gingerly made my way around the hall and onto the linoleum kitchen floor for a glass of water.

As I neared the sink I felt my wet feet slide out from under and suddenly my forehead slammed into the sink. In a reflex jerk I snapped my head back smashing my cranium up into the kitchen cabinet above the faucet. This must’ve looked like some kind of slapstick comedy dance and may have knocked me out for a bit. But the fore and aft head banging definitely put me on the floor, bent and feeble, and I’m thinking, “my wife is going to come home and find me dead, lying naked on the kitchen floor”.

I started laughing at my sorry state and lay there, slowly gathering energy, slowly taking a painful swallow of spit. In no time I was on my feet and cheerily functioning in my normal healthy state. Apparently I had knocked my head hard enough to put my teeth in a better position to displace the poison or whatever was going on in my jaw. Whatever happened in the concussion, it seemed to have cured me.

Eventually everyone came home and all was fine. For the next week I drank a lot of milk, hoping it’s vitamins would rebuild my strength quickly. It was like nothing had ever happened, and then came a recurrence even more severe than before. I was ready for professional help, and we were flying home soon. I’d wait it out and see a doctor I was familiar with.

Arriving at the clinic I found the doctor I liked was gone so they scooted me off to some other guy. In this strange doctor’s office I chose the fewest words possible to explain my wisdom teeth poison theory and he listened earnestly. He was old and kept looking at me with suspicion, like I was faking this and he was on hidden camera, trying to catch him in some dubious act. He asked if I would mind going to an “ear, nose and throat” specialist and I nodded in the affirmative. See a guy who knows about throats? You bet. There the young Asian doctor seemed to have been briefed on my condition and recognized the problem right away. He reached in and squeezed my goiter with authority. “You have a blockage of the saliva gland. Probably a calcium deposit, like a kidney stone.” He gave it a steroid shot, another good squeeze and a prescription for lemonade. “Four eight ounce glasses a day, the acid will break down the calcium and it’ll be fine. Drink it forever.”

Although a possible cure, that sentence was worse than a jail sentence. Overnight I was to go from high alkaline intake to high acid intake. I assumed the lifetime milk overdose had caused the calcium build up and I knew I had to surrender my only link to any form of nutrition. Doctor Delilah had cut my hair and I felt limp knowing there was no more practical source for healthy intake left in my limited diet.

For two sorry years I went without as much as a sip of milk… then I had to go see the doctor for something else, maybe just a check-up, and I told him the story. He agreed with everything that had been diagnosed and prescribed, but disagreed with my conclusion about milk causing it. “Your body assimilates the calcium from milk a different way than it produces the calcium that caused the blockage, drink as much low-fat milk as you want.” Well okay! I knew I liked this doctor better that any other. So I’m back to thinking I’m healthy and therefore I am healthy.

But when I look back at the rag-doll head banging in Venice, I can’t help but think about all the things that had to fall into place for me to hit my head properly to clear the blockage (that I didn’t even know I had). On some level there was a diagnosis and simple remedy bestowed on me. With no conscious effort I had to get the floor wet and there had to be some level of awareness of the cabinetry layout so I’d bang my head properly. I mean when you get down to actual mortality, there’s a lot in play on all sorts of unseen levels.

Some people get glimpses of these powers through their faith, others through drugs, meditation or other means that seem to strip away the immediate limitations that are all around us; things like being confined to our bodies or to the gravity laden earth. Ancestral people used rituals and intoxicants to disorient their perception of the world around them. Modern people may perform their ceremonies in churches and get their hallucinogens on the street; both seem to seek a peek at some world other than this one.

You think about this stuff when you’re wet and naked and helpless in a foreign land. These are the moments you live for. When I was a kid I loved being in Europe, every few hours you had to change your money, speak a different language and order from a different selection of beverages. Everything you learned in one country flew out the train window when you arrived in the next country. This constant disorientation was the lure of international travel. In these homogenized days almost everyone speaks English, everyone uses the same boring Euro-dollar and in even the most remote villages everyone wears Dockers and Nikes and talks on cell phones.

So this physical malady was the perfect way to get the exhilaration of being in a foreign place. Nothing is more extraordinary than leaving your body while on vacation.

Central Casting

In many ways getting old is like getting rich. It doesn’t change you, just exaggerates what you already are. I’m already deficient in face recognition. I used to notice it in the movies. If there were two or more actresses with similar hairstyle or color, I was never sure which character was which. Now it’s crossed gender lines and I can’t tell anyone who looks similar in the movies, like they all come from central casting. Maybe that’s why I don’t like “period” movies, ones that are set in a different time or place, where the costumes are accurate to the era, but confusingly the same style.

We try to go to the movies once a week. Further, we try to see small movies, documentaries and foreign flicks, movies that are experimental or have a limited appeal. Generally, if I’ve heard of the star, I look for another movie. Of course there’s the odd times when we see movies with friends, that’s the time for mainstream cinema.

So we went to see Amelia. It was okay, it looks like they spent a lot of money on pretty scenes, but there was no heart. The next week we saw the Men Who Stare At Goats. It was funny and I liked the dialog. On the way home Deb is telling me that she liked Ewan McGregor’s role in Amelia, but didn’t think the guy he played in Goats helped the movie any. I didn’t realize he was in both movies. So I ask, “Who’d he play in Amelia?” “He played the boyfriend” I drew a blank. “The guy she had an affair with and they flew around together…” I was a bit embarrassed, but I had no idea who she was talking about. When I got home I Googled stills from the movie and couldn’t pick him out or figure out who he was in the movie. There was one scene I remembered where he was prominent, but I couldn’t distinguish him from one still to the next. This isn’t good for his career or mine, after all, I paint portraits.

So I’m thinking about this latest affliction and I remember years ago I had taken a young lady to dinner. I didn’t date a lot and certainly had no polish in this activity, but when I returned from a bathroom visit, I had no idea which table to return to, no one looked familiar. So I made the rounds, saying “Hey, how you doin’” to every table, “Everything goin’ good tonight? Alright”, until I got to a table where a young lady says, “Gee, you’re a gregarious one.” So I figured that was my table and finished up the date quickly so I could get back to the bar. Maybe back then my obsession with “disorienting the senses” played a role in the homogenization of strangers, but I haven’t had a drink in almost eighteen years and yet people still look strikingly unfamiliar.

This might play a part in my sad attempts at name recognition. Maybe I don’t remember people’s names because I’ve never seen their faces before. None of this speaks well for my entertaining skills. I’m self conscious about it; it’s an obvious shortcoming. I rarely introduce people to Deb because I often don’t have a clue as to who they are. I get as far as, “this is the guy from…wherever,” but she’s on her own getting the name. So they shake hands and lean in to each other with anticipation of the next logical word… ”Hank” he blurts out. With great relief I‘ll interject, “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you two had met, this is Hank…” and I think no one notices; dodged another bullet. But this cute little mis-cue is turning into my self-identity. I’m the guy who knows everybody and no one at the same time. I’m the new Mr. Magoo who may as well be blind except that I paint portraits. I may see your every pore and each stray hair in your brow, but apparently, unless you have a nametag, I’ll just deliver the painting to central casting.

The Day I Got Old



Saturday October 17th, 2009 was the day I got old. I was really fifty-five years, three months and a couple days, but up until that day I was still a spring chicken in my demented mind, free of aches and pains, able to leap tall buildings, stop speeding bullets…
So Saturdays are workdays around the house and this one was typical. My duty was to run speaker wires throughout the house so I could listen to my Hendrix LPs from any room any time. Our house is on a raised foundation, stem wall; pre-1933 Long Beach earthquake, unsecured construction. I’ve been under the house many times for different reasons, plumbing, strapping the floor joists to the foundation, general maintenance junk. I always kind of like being down there, it’s an adventure. I pretend I’m Kirby or someone from the TV show Combat! and Sgt. Saunders has sent me down there to wire up a bomb or tap into the kraut’s communication system. Always something noble and important to convince me that dragging my ass through the dirt and cobwebs and rat crap is something that is for the betterment of man.
I haven’t been down there for some time and the last year at work I’ve been pretty complacent physically, a lot of sitting at a desk and not a lot of exercise. I knew I’d added some tonnage recently, my once-a-year funeral clothes were really tight and on the occasion when I’d go past a reflection I was always amused at the fun-house mirror effect but didn’t recognize who was looking back at me… but you know, in my mind’s eye I could still wear the same belt I wore in high school.
Anyways, I’m getting prepped to go under the house. I’ve got on my prized Ferrari overalls and I clear the ivy away from the screen door that is the passageway to the underworld. First thing I encounter is a couple black widows. Little ones. They’re the worst kind because you know there’s a big mother lurking somewhere near, watching you clobber her kids and planning her revenge when you’re at your most vulnerable state, probably tonight while I’m trying to sleep.
I’ve got my suddenly dim flashlight and a staple gun to tack the wires up off the ground and I’ve got my orders from the Sgt., ready to go. Once under the house there is a specific route to follow. There are gas and water lines, sewer lines that go from the floor to who knows where under the soil and old duct-work from an abandoned heating system. You go over to the gas line, shinny underneath and head left, around the drains and you’re in the clear to get to the other side of the house.
For some reason I can’t get under the gas line today. I squeeze under to a point and just stop. My belly is putting such a strain on the line it’s starting to bend. “Maybe I go over the gas line and under the water lines…” I’m thinking; so I try that. That is immediately proven to be wrong so I try under again, amazed there is either so much more dirt here than last year or the pipes have drooped considerably. Now I’m trapped under the gas line. I can’t squirm left or wiggle right and the pipe is looking weak. Suddenly I picture the black widow mother licking her chops and saying, “now I’ve got him” and in a big jolt I free myself from the predicament. I’ve still got my work to do and it looks like a long way to belly crawl to the other side of the house. The flashlight is dimmer now and I have to go completely around the perimeter to avoid these damn pipes and it’s gonna take a long time and the krauts are likely to hear me bitching down there and unload their 8 mm machine guns on me and I may never get out of here.
I get to my destination, wires in tow. I left the stapler way back there so it won’t be the clean job I’d hoped. Actually it’s only a few feet away but I can’t get to it because of this new restricted clearance. I feed the wires up to Deborah, who is patiently waiting in the safety of a well lit room, and I begin my trek around the perimeter to get back to this tiny little passage in the concrete wall that I’ll never get through.
Well I do get out, filthy and paranoid and looking for fang bites on my bare neck and I can’t shake this creepy feeling that being under the house isn’t as idyllic as it used to be and I’m not as nimble or fast thinking as my dull mind perceives it is and, jeez, I must be getting old. Fat and old. Maybe that’s why all the grey hair and skin that’s starting to look like crepe paper. Then I tripped going up the back step to the kitchen, fell and skinned my shin. Although it didn’t hurt, I was sure I must’ve broke my hip. I noticed I get winded easier than I used to and there’s still that old fart looking at me in the kitchen window reflection.
The following Monday I was to jury an art exhibit. There were eighty entries and my job was to whittle the selection down to a reasonable number that the gallery could comfortably hang, maybe forty of fifty, and pick seven award winners. This was a task well suited to my new elderly status, a job where years of exposure to paintings and considerable experience in passing judgment on others would come in handy. I weeded out the crappy, no-effort paintings right away and started on the failed attempts next, followed by the clueless and the downright misled artists who are in need of counseling. 

        The next week doesn’t offer anything to counter my new status as an old guy. Then Saturday at the gallery I give a little speech and hand out the awards for the exemplary entries. Tim the M.C. had made an impromptu dais for me out of a little step ladder and as I ambled up there, a good twenty inches above all these bright shiny faces with youthful eyes full of hope I realized most of them are over forty and I’m the old guy, some sort of sage on top of a hill to bestow trinkets on the plebeians. This perked me up. Now I’m back to my rightful place above the masses, doing something noble and important, convincing me that dragging my ass through life’s dirt and cobwebs and rat crap may have been something that is for the betterment of man.