Finding Balance

“I’m Frank. If you want to have a political debate, I’m your man!” That’s what the frank new guy in my Bible study group said after he’d introduced himself. He’s still shaking my hand. He’s enthusiastic and dogmatic: quite the Bible study dream combo.

I stare in his eyes. “I’m not looking for a man.”

He stops shaking my hand, and twists his head like a lost puppy. “uh…”

Yeah, I give him a chance to catch up. It’s OK. It’s not like I’m smarter than the average bear; I’m just more skewed. In sixth grade it made me the social equivalent of a Wiccan vacationing in eastern Massachusetts. As an adult it makes me just as popular, but at least I’m a conversational Mohammad Ali: nobody can touch me if they can’t understand me.

Frank turns to the guy sitting across from him, “So what do you think of Obama’s handling of the BP oil crisis?”

“Well, uhm…” See? The guy across from Frank doesn’t want to talk about politics either, but now he’s stuck, because I bobbed and weaved my way out of that bad boy.

Politics shouldn’t matter. This is Bible study, and we’re here to talk about things mentioned within. BP may be the equivalent of an Apocalyptic plague, but I’m not gonna count my locusts until they’re hatched.

I don’t like talking politics. I was married. I’ve learned about winnable battles and victories that are ashes in my mouth. Politics and religion are holy wars looking to happen. Frank says he likes to debate politics, but like any master debater, what Frank really likes is to prove how right he is.

Good for Frank. Some people like that. Not me. I avoid politics.

Last month while I waited for a haircut, a woman sitting next to me played with her young daughter. She was keeping the girl occupied. I sifted through my iPhone email as the opening guitar for Toto’s “Hold the Line” comes over the radio. I know these things. The lady next to me doesn’t. She raises her daughter’s arms up high in the air and squeals, “This is Journey! Mommy loves this song!” She blew raspberries into the girl’s belly. I sighed.

Luckily there was a pet store next door. I found a Terrier, bought him, slapped him in a picnic basket and donned my favorite Dorothy Gail garb—my hair was already long; I didn’t need a wig, but I did grab some zip-tie ribbons. Then I returned to the haircutter before the song was over.

“You like Journey?” I asked holding the basket’s handles.

“Yes.” She said looking up from her little girl.

I then beat the woman with the dog basket, yelling, “This is Toto!” Toto yelps and cowers beneath the baskets flaps. Don’t hate me: I gave him some bubble wrap bedding. It didn’t help the woman much, but Toto was fine.

The little girl was horrified. So was I. I’m appalled by the gaps in the American education system and parents who misinform their kids. In the end, I leave. The little girl holds Toto in her arms, because the police won’t let me take him in the back of the car.

“His name is Toto!” I call as they drive away. I don’t think she’ll forget.

Music is my politics. I’m not here to debate it though. Just get your facts right or I’ll let you know you’re wrong.

Frank’s now got the guy across from him against the ropes. He’s citing Obama’s fiscal policy for his first year in office.

Obama had a fiscal policy?

I don’t know. I pay just enough attention to politics to know that, as an unemployed divorced male, I’m a statistic. I do know who won American Idol, though. See? I know something that has nothing to do with music.

I told the Pirate Queen about the woman and her girl getting the haircut when she posted bail.

“She told her daughter it was Journey!”

“Yeah, honey? I hate to tell you this, but I don’t remember who did that song.”

We broke up for a month after that.

See? Frank’s not the only guy who has his sticking points. We all have our lines in the sand separating us the world is full of idiots. I guess the difference between Frank and I, is that I know that I have a problem.

My court appointed therapist agrees.

“I swear Arizona’s got it right.” Franks now talking to somebody else. The guy across from him has excused himself and is hiding out in the bathroom. I say hiding, but maybe not. He’s been in there for a half-hour. Maybe he’s just feeling a little irregular.

I know a lot about feeling irregular. I was in the grocery store last week. I’m walking down the aisle looking to buy some instant rice dinners. Unfortunately, there’s a couple snuggling in front of the soup. They’re blocking the aisle from passage like a bridge troll awaiting toll.

I throw a bottle of spaghetti sauce in their cart, but it’s no use. I have two choices. I can wait and watch as he nibbles her ear, or I can look at the canned veggies, and wait.

“Oh look! Sauerkraut!” I need some!

After fifteen minutes I’m reading the ingredients list on a ramen packet. The music overhead starts to play, “Sunglasses at Night.” I remember this song from my youth. So do the lover-trolls.

“Listen!” she-troll screams, “It’s David Bowie!”

He-troll agrees, “You just recognized that?”

That’s it. I can stand here for love, but stupidity? I turn my cart so that the canned food cannons are facing the Siamese troll-twins and I fire all guns.

Peas! Carrots! Corn! Kraut! If it’s on the shelf, it’s flying at my nemesis. “ARRGH and Avast! You scurvy dogs! I know Bowie, and Corey Hart is no David Bowie!” The Pirate Queen would be so proud of my swashbuckling skill!

The store manager is impressed. He’s got three mall cops to hold me down until the real police show up.

“Corey Hart! You freakin’ idiot!” I yell from the back of the car.

Yeah, I’m a bit of a zealot sometimes. That’s why I don’t go toe to toe with Frank. I know what it’s like to have issues. His issues aren’t mine but we can agree to at least not cross paths.

The other guy Frank’s been talking to has gnawed his own leg off and is hopping for the door. It’s me and one other man left, and I’m not getting locked into Frank’s sights. I lean towards the remaining guy who’s been quiet all night. “Hey! It’s been a while! How are you doing?”

“I’m getting a divorce.”

Both Frank and I stop.

“Dude! That blows. I’ve been there.” Both Frank and I say in unison. We look to each other then to the guy in front of us. Suddenly the world is a smaller place. There are no dogmas, only pain. Frank and I sit and listen as the other guy relays his story. He’s not blaming, he’s just letting it out.

“You know, I don’t talk to anybody about this cuz I don’t want them to go, ‘poor you.’” He’s trying to sound upbeat.

Frank and I nod. “I know what you mean.” We harmonize.

That night we didn’t get into the Bible study. We put all out weapons and opinions aside to help a friend. Sometimes that’s the most important part. Our comrade let go his pain, and we held our issues until the evening was over.

After the man had released his burden he said, “What’s that beeping?”

Frank said, “I hear it too.”

I looked down and lifted my pant leg, “Oh, that’s me.” A red light blinked in quick sequence on my bulky black anklet. “The police will be here pretty soon. You might want to move away before they tackle to me.”

It was the least I could do for the soon to be divorced and my new friend Frank.