It was a Friday somewhere in a 1980s, murky, distant past-darkness. I was 28.

I met Al’s son Mark through an ad in the paper. We agreed on rental terms for an apartment he was renting. However, it wouldn’t be ready before Monday.

I said, “It’s probably not going to work. I need a place now.”

Mark was a young and ambitious 28 year old man with a medium build and 5’8″ tall. He was one of those who seemed to have a solution for anything and everything.

He smiled. “Not  a problem. My father has a spare bedroom, and I’m sure he’ll rent it out for a couple of days until your unit is available. “

We went to his triplex, another of Mark’s properties. He lived on the 3rd floor. Al lived on the 2nd floor, and I didn’t know it at the time, but the 1st floor was empty and available.

Al and I agreed on terms, and he invited me out for a beer at some local dive down at Lansdowne and Bloor.

Al was from Malta, and he was about 60 and barrel chested. He told me he was once one of the most powerful men who ever lived. That was before all his teeth fell out with gum disease a couple of years previously.

“A month was all it took for them to all fall out… I’ve never really recovered. My once great looks gone like that.” Al snapped his chubby short fingers and took a swig from a bottle. He grimaced for a second and then smiled. “You’re still young and good-looking… We could make a great team, you and I.  The women will come over to see you, and I’ll just take the leftovers.”

I was having a difficult time keeping a straight face. So I decided to just go with it.

“So, I’m like the bait?”

“Exactly!”

Al’s smile seemed genuine this time. Not reptilian, like before. I couldn’t believe that he thought that I was going to be ok with this arrangement . Never had I met a man so full of himself; and so in love with his past. I began to weigh the possible dangers and inconveniences of such an arrangement against the potential entertainment value. I decided that it would be only 2 days when the first of the bar-flys came to the table and sat down and introduced herself to me. I could see Al smile through my perifrial.

“This is my roommate, Al.” I smiled…

It’s well over a year now since I published Look Them in the Eyes- and several things have happened since…

My father’s family found me after my Aunt  Joan saw my name on the cover of the Look Them in the Eyes on Facebook.

There are no sales figures that could top this personal success for me.

Also, I found out through DNA testing that a community where I lived for many years thinking that I was not related to any of them, that in fact I am related to most.

This is the lesson.

The connection.

Family.

Whether we like it or not is somewhat irrelevant!

After the perfect time…

When she is still sleeping and I am energized with time to write in the darkened quiet; and after I have gotten all the attention and love, I could possibly stand, without pain or worry, or fears of death, for I am pleased with how it has all turned out and now I can give a recap.

In Act 1, they generally left me to my own devices without the tiresome old tried and true teachings of the elders; like some kind of social experiment meant for future reflection on what will happen if we let him stew in confusion and chaos? “Maybe he will become one of those artist types.” I knew it was a lie; that I wasn’t,”jerked on a stump and hatched in the sun.”

When I couldn’t take it anymore, I found the magic transformative elixir and went somewhere else when I was 15…

During Act 2, I spent maybe too much time with the elixir. However, the thought occurred to me that the very thing that I felt was saving my life, might be killing me. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I stopped. I was 45.

Act 3- Sobriety is a trip. I sought wise counsel and advice and learned to listen. The voices in my head went quiet. I tried to have a healthy relationship. I worked hard. I prayed to God for guidance and developed faith… I became a father. My greatest teacher became my child because watching her grow, I began to understand my own life and childhood. I gave up on having a healthy relationship and began to understand the phrase: ‘If you want to hear God laugh, just make plans.’

I am 20 + years sober and 66 years old. I am in a relationship with a younger woman who makes me feel so very much alive. I am blessed to have been allowed to experience so much life.

I don’t know what the future brings. However, I will attempt to accept it with a glad and open heart.

To those of you that I pissed-off along the way; please try to get over it. I was just trying to survive.

She is awake now, and so am I…

Dennis Mantin

Once you escape.

Create a safe distance.

Enter therapy!

Heal…

And try again.

If fortune shines your way.

You find someone who is kind and loving. 

Only then  will you realize that a younger version of you made that choice.

We were taught about this love.

From those who never knew.

They had heard the stories of.

From the dreamers and the few.

These survivors of those wars.

Who heard this from above.

To teach in words and metaphors.

To live, lie, and say I love.

I’ve heard them speaking of.

Just not certain or so sure.

I said I don’t believe in love.

So altruistic and so pure.

We were dreaming of a future.

Where something better came along.

When we could guide the children.

Where we could be that strong.

We were dreaming of a future.

And the future it is here.

And we are all so happy now.

There was so much crap to clear.

We were up against those forces.

In a post Thanos multiverse.

All the heroes, they now know.

To carry makeup in their purse.

Now that that’s been settled.

No more God or faith no more.

Our leaders are busy leading.

No more questions or out the door.

We dined on tea and oranges.

On the sand down by the sea.

There were possible storm warnings.

That escaped both you and me.

The dingy left the harbor.

The sail snapped by noon.

The winds grew dark and heavy.

Under far too soon, typhoon.

They’ll be no more tea and oranges.

Or walks down at the park.

The dreamers dream is heavy now.

And faint hopes are growing dark.

I have a rule at home that goes something like this. I don’t care what you tell them out there in the world, but here at home; you tell me the truth.

If I find out that I’ve been lied to, then I usually react in a frothy emotional outburst.

I have noticed that my reactions have neither slowed down the rate of the lies or changed anything.

Therefore, I am beginning to believe that truth is a myth we tell ourselves. Clearly, I don’t know the answers for certain. However, since I used to be physically beaten as a child in an attempt to stop me from not telling the truth; I see this development as steps in the right direction.

Hence, the frothy emotional outbursts have ceased…

When men feel stress, they process.

When women feel stress, they talk.

Generally speaking, women feel uncomfortable with the men’s process because it happens in silence.

For a man to talk when he’s stressed only increases his stress.

I’ll just leave this here and go away for a while and write…

Talk among yourselves

OR

Process by yourself.

A rich man drives a taxi.

A poor man drives a Ford.

But my old man

Goes down the street

With four wheels on a board.

MARGARET MANTIN