Turn Out the Lights, The (Pity) Party’s Over

By Patrick Best

Every once in a while I need a swift and hard kick in the butt. I start feeling sorry for myself, and I go from being the Smiling, Joking, Extroverted, Look at Me, Look at Me Patrick to the I Want to Close the Blinds, Eat Ice Cream and Listen to James Taylor’s Greatest Hits Patrick. This doesn’t happen very often, but, unfortunately, it happened this week. Susie has always been good about breaking up my pity parties before I have to get prescribed anything heavier than two beers and some loud rock-n-roll, but this has been one serious woe is me get-down session.

When I got up this morning I didn’t want to go to work. I started coming up with illnesses and car problem stories as soon as I opened my eyes. Nothing felt right. My coffee wasn’t hot enough, my breakfast bar was too soft, and the water coming out of the shower head felt like a million little needles sticking into my body. I had a couple of pretty big meetings scheduled today, so I sucked it up, put on my dress shirt that had too much starch in it, black suit that didn’t seem to fit me right anymore, and drove to my office.

My biggest meeting of the day was in the afternoon. It was a rescheduled presentation to a potentially large client who’d emailed me the day before our meeting last week to tell me he had to go to New York. Strangely, I started getting into “one of my moods”, as Susie calls them, around the time I received this brief email:

“Hey Patrick. I’m going to have to postpone our meeting tomorrow. Going to be in NYC. Next Tuesday at the same time okay with you?”

I took a deep breath, flipped a bird at my computer screen, rearranged some things on my schedule, then responded with “I totally understand.” and “I hope you have a great trip! See you next Tuesday!” I learned long ago that if you’re going to be successful in sales you sometimes have to smile and say “I totally understand”… even when you totally don’t understand. 

He seemed distracted from the moment I started my presentation. I went over some things we’d discussed over the phone a few weeks ago – average spend of each customer, areas of his business he wants to grow, what makes his business different from his competitors – as he sat in his chair with his arms crossed, occasionally sneaking a peek at the very large Rolex watch he wore on his left wrist.

“You told me that you estimate each new customer you acquire will spend about $500 with you in year one,” I said as I pressed the button to move the PowerPoint presentation from page two to three. His cell phone rang - the annoyingly loud sound sent shivers through my whole body.

He quickly stood up and reached into the pocket of his dress slacks, fished the phone out quickly. “You’ll have to excuse me. I need to take this call,” he said as he walked to the door and left the room. “Hey honey,” he said into the phone as his accidentally slammed the door behind him.

‘Great,’ I said to myself. ‘What a freaking waste of time.’ I’ve been in advertising sales for about two decades, so I can usually tell whether a person’s going to buy from me in the first minute after a meeting starts. I knew within 10 seconds that I wasn’t walking out with a contract today.

He had a pained look on his face when he came back into the room. I couldn’t tell whether it was the “I really don’t want to listen to a sales pitch from a guy I’m not going to buy from today” face or the “I just heard something in that phone conversation that really screwed up my day” face.

"Everything okay?" I asked.

"Yes... sorry about that,” he smiled. “Where were we?”

I quickly went back over page two again and he acted as though it was the first time he’d heard any of it. That’s because I’m fairly confident it WAS the first time he’d heard any of it. Since I knew there was no way this guy was going to sign on the dotted line, I moved through some of the pie charts and bar graphs pages like a guy who’s had some bad Mexican food for lunch and wants to get back to the office before the Tijuana fireworks started blasting.

“I’m sorry. Gotta take this…” he stood and stared at the face of his iPhone with wide, hungry eyes.

“I totally understand,” I said with a smile.

“Hello,” he said into the phone, paying no attention to my response. “Yes, this is Craig.”

He left the room again, but this time he didn’t close the door. I tried not to listen to the conversation, but I’m a sales guy… and good sales guys listen. “Yes, yes, Monday and Tuesday are fine,” he said with more than a hint of urgency. “Should I go ahead and book flights for us for Monday morning?... Uh huh… That’s not a problem… We’re prepared to come anytime.”

I was ready to pack up and leave. I didn’t have his attention, so I wasn’t going to make a sale. I wasn’t the priority… the subject of the phone call was the priority. ‘Never be the sales guy who sticks around longer than he’s wanted. That guy doesn’t get invited back.’

When he walked back into the room he looked like a man who’d just witnessed a terrible car accident. I was packing up my computer and preparing some leave behind materials I’d put together for him. His face was whiter than when he’d left the room, his hair a little messy from where he’d run his hand through it. The inside of his right front pocket was peeking out of his pants from when he’d pulled his phone out. The phone was still clutched in his hand.

“I’m really sorry about not being engaged today,” he said. “My son is really sick.”

“Oh no…” I said. My face felt flush and the sympathetic words and thoughts that were in my head and on the tip of my tongue stayed right where they were.

“He’s in pretty bad shape,” he said. He paused and bit his upper lip with bottom teeth. “We took him to New York last week to see a specialist, but nothing seems to be working. I was talking to another doctor about getting him back in early next week.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that.” Five minutes ago I wanted to slam my fists on the conference room table and tell him that he was an inconsiderate jerk. Now I wanted to give him a hug.

“He has diverticulosis. It’s supposed to be treatable… but the doctors can’t figure out why he’s not responding.” He looked up to the ceiling like he was either hoping for divine intervention or trying to keep the water in his eyes from spilling over his eyelids. When he lowered his head and looked at me again, I came to the conclusion that it was probably both.

“I’m sure he’s going to be okay, Craig,” I said weakly. “I’ll keep you and your family in my prayers.”

I thanked him for his time and told him at least three more times before I left his office how “truly sorry” I was to hear about his son’s illness. I drove back to my office with my cell phone and radio off, thanking God out loud for the health of my children and chastising myself for not counting and recognizing my many blessings. If you happened to see my driving down 285 talking to myself today, please don’t be worried about me. I’m not crazy… I was just responding to my most recent kick in the butt.

The Runway Model from L.A. (Lower Alabama)

By Patrick Best

When I was 16 years old I became infatuated with a girl named Christi Ross. She was almost six foot tall, had long brown hair and her skin was so perfect I compulsively said things like the following when I looked directly at her: “Wow, Christi, you sure do have pretty skin.” This made me sound eerily like one of the crazed serial killers in the horror movies I watched on Showtime late at night, so I started looking at the ground or at the back of my hands when I talked to her.

Christi literally looked like a runway model. This is one of the many reasons why I couldn’t understand why she had any interest in me. I was poor, I hung out with the wrong crowd, and my wardrobe said homeless runaway more than it did New York Fashion Week. I wore wrinkled concert T-shirts that were screen printed with band names and pictures that usually included blood or flames or both, and my only pair of high top tennis shoes were covered with grass stains from the occasional lawn-cutting job I did to earn walking around money.

My hair was long and straight, and I had an annoying habit of blowing my bangs out of my eyes every 10 or 15 seconds. It drove my step-father absolutely nuts. “Woo! Woo!” my step-father would mimic me as he blew air toward the sky through his puckered, beard-surrounded lips. “That’s all I hear when I’m around you! Woo! Woo! Get a haircut, for god’s sake!” A bulging, crooked vein would appear in the middle of his forehead and I’m convinced he seriously considered grabbing a steak knife out of the kitchen drawer and sawing off a couple of inches of my hair. I didn’t care. I liked my long hair. And, more importantly, Christi Ross liked it.

“You have really cool hair,” she said to me during one of our phone conversations. “It’s really shiny.”

This simple compliment made me obsess over my hair in the morning before school. I started getting up earlier every day so I could wash it and blow-dry it and stare at it in the mirror. I turned my head from side to side so I could get the lights to gleam off the shampooed, conditioned and thoroughly brushed strands. 

For a few glorious weeks in the early fall of 1986, Christi and I talked on the phone all the time. We also chatted at school in the hallway.  Even better, she invited me over to her house a couple of times to watch movies. I remember being impressed – and more than a little intimidated - by her beautiful house with the expensive furniture and the big T.V. in her living room.

“Do you want some chips, Patrick?” Christi’s mother asked me politely as she opened the pantry doors in their kitchen.

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied eagerly. Christi was sitting on the couch next to me so I was staring down at my fingertips, checking for the little white spots that I’d heard appear on your nails if you don’t have enough calcium in your diet.

“Plain, barbecue or Doritos?” she asked.

“Doritos, please.” There were no white spots on my nails. I surmised that it must have been all the milk I consumed in the two or three bowls of Crunch Berries cereal I ate each day.

“Would you like a Coke?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said with a smile.

“How about a chocolate chip cookie?” she added as she handed me a big bag of Doritos and a cold can of Coke.  “I made a bunch yesterday.”

“God, Momma,” Christi said as she laughed and rolled her eyes. “You’re going to give him a stomach ache!”

“It’s fine,” I said. “I love chocolate chip cookies.” ‘Did you really just say that? I love chocolate chip cookies?! Really?! You are such a dork!’ My internal dialogue was constant when I was in uncomfortable situations, and this was definitely an uncomfortable situation for me. I probably spoke more words to myself than I did to Christi during my time at her house.

I spent a lot of my time away from high school drinking cheap beer and getting into trouble with my friends, so most of the mothers of the girls I liked stared at me with raised eyebrows and accusing eyes. Christi’s mom talked and looked at me like I was a kid whose parents belonged to the Ozark Country Club and had his picture in the newspaper for making all As and not missing one day of school since kindergarten. I liked it… and I liked her. But, alas, my relationship with Christi and her mother wouldn’t even last a full month.

My friend Justin and I were riding around in his silver Chevy Chevette one day after school. We were both around 6’3, so we looked pretty ridiculous crammed into the front seat of that little car. We didn’t care. If one of our friends had a car that worked, we were going to be out riding around in it until the gas tank ran dry and we were all out of money. We had just come through town and were sitting at a stop sign when I spotted something out of the corner of my eye. I could see my little house on East College Street from where we were sitting, and there was a car in the driveway and people standing in the yard.  

“Who is that?” I asked Justin, pointing in the direction of my house. We were a couple of hundred yards away, but I could tell there were three people talking on my front lawn.

“How the hell do I know?” he responded sarcastically. “I don’t have binoculars for eyes, ya know.”

“You don’t have to be such a jerk about it,” I said. “Drive by real quick and let me see what’s going on.”

“Really, dude?! Who cares? Let’s just go over to TJ’s and pick him up. He’s waiting for us.”

“Just ride by real quick. It won’t take two seconds.”

Justin reluctantly turned the steering wheel, grinded into first gear and pressed the accelerator. The little tin can with wheels lurched forward like a cat trying to push out a giant hair ball, and we slowly moved up the street toward my house. I recognized Christi first. Her arms were crossed, her head was down, and she was standing in the middle of my front yard. Her mother was a few feet in front of her and she was holding my mother’s out-stretched hands.  

“What in the hell?” I said with astonishment.

“Dude, this does not look good,” Justin said gravely. “What did you do?”

“Nothing. How do they even know where I live?” I said as Justin pulled up in front of the house. I opened the door and leapt out onto the curb before the car came to a complete stop. Christi looked up when she heard the creak of the door. Her face turned beet red, then she dropped her eyes back down to the dandelions and clover that had overtaken our yard.

‘Dammit. I knew I should have cut the grass yesterday,’ I thought.

“Hey, baby,” my mother said before I could get out any of the questions swirling in my head. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

I completely ignored her and spoke to Christi. “Is everything okay, Christi? What are you guys doing here?”

Christi said nothing. She shrugged her shoulders slowly like a child who’s just been caught lighting matches behind the sofa. She was wearing navy blue shorts and a white designer shirt. She looked like she’d just stepped off the pages of the new Macy’s catalog.

My mother’s voice broke the silence. “Christi tried to call you this afternoon and she kept getting the message that our phone had been disconnected. She got worried about you, baby, so her and her sweet momma came over to check on us.” She paused, then added, “And Christi, you’re even prettier than Patrick said.”

Christi smiled politely and nodded her head, but she didn’t look up or say a word.

I could tell my mother had been drinking because the sides of her mouth were turned down in a frown and her eyes looked a little sleepy behind the big red eyeglasses that looked just like the ones TV’s Sally Jessy Raphael wore every day on her talk show. My mother always spoke with a Southern accent, but after two stiff drinks she would channel Scarlett O’Hara during her melodramatic scenes with Rhett Butler in Gone With the Wind. ‘And when I think of myself with everything I could possibly hope for, and not a care in the world... And you here in this horrid jail... and not even a human jail, Rhett, a horse jail!’

“What’s wrong with the phone?” I asked as if I was shocked by this news. I already knew it had been cut off because we hadn’t paid the bill, but for some reason I felt I might get another explanation from  my mother if I asked the question with conviction.

“I told Mrs. Ross that we’ve been having the hardest time keeping up with our bills,” she said as reached out to touch Mrs. Ross’s forearm. “And, bless her heart, Mrs. Ross has offered to pay this month’s bill. Isn’t that sweet, Patrick? Isn’t she just a blessing?”

“What?!” I yelled. The volume of my voice made everyone jump. Even Christi looked up at me for a brief moment before returning her eyes to the weeds. “She’s not paying our bill, Momma.”

“It’s fine, Patrick,” Mrs. Ross said cheerily, reassuringly. “I told your mother she can pay me back whenever things get better. Y’all can’t go without a phone. It’s just not safe.”

I could tell by the look in her eyes that she felt pity for me. I felt like I was on fire all over.

“Go in the house, Momma,” I said calmly. “Let me talk to Christi and Mrs. Ross.”

“Isn’t she just as nice as can be, Patrick?” my mother said, her hand now patting Mrs. Ross on the shoulder. I could almost imagine her twirling a parasol and wearing a dress made out of curtains.

“Go in the house, Momma,” I repeated, this time through tightly gritted teeth. My mother seemed to notice for the first time at that moment that I was angry. This recognition seemed to immediately sober her up, like the sight of my red cheeks and furrowed brow was the equivalent of a cold shower and a double shot of espresso. She turned around and, without saying another word, walked up the concrete steps and into our house. She slammed the front door behind her. I felt a pang of guilt for the way I had talked to her, but my feelings of embarrassment and frustration were much more powerful.

“I didn’t mean to cause any trouble,” Mrs. Ross said. “I…”

“You didn’t cause any trouble,” I interrupted. “We don’t need you to pay our phone, Mrs. Ross. My step-father has the money to pay the bill.” I lied.

“Oh… good,” she stammered. She wasn’t buying what I was selling, but she didn’t know what else to say.

I didn’t even look at Christi. I already knew she was going to be out of my life. Our relationship didn’t have enough history to hold heavy moments like disconnected phones and drunk mothers. Moments like that sit on immature young relationships and crush them like an elephant on chairs made for toddlers.

“Well, you give me a call if there’s anything I can do to help you,” Mrs. Ross said as she reached out to give me a hug. I hugged her back, but we didn’t say anything else to each other. When she let me go, she stepped away from me and smiled.

“Come on, Christi, let’s go. I need to stop by the grocery store before we go home,” Mrs. Ross said in an upbeat tone as she walked toward her car.

Christi muttered “See you tomorrow” in my direction and quickly moved toward the passenger door of her mother’s car.

“Sounds good,” I replied flatly. “See you tomorrow.”

Justin’s car was idling in the road in front of my house. When I opened the door and slowly folded myself back into that tiny death trap of a vehicle, my knees slammed against the handle on the glove compartment. “Dammit, this car is not made for people like us,” I said, grimacing with pain.

 Justin looked at me quizzically. “So… you gonna tell me what the hell that was all about?”

“You’re not going to believe it. Our phone got cut off… and Mrs. Ross was offering to pay to have it cut back on.”

“Screw that!” he said. “You told her to go to hell, right?”

“Basically,” I replied.

“Good for you, dude. You don’t need their charity,” he said as he aggressively pressed down the clutch and guided the little stick shift into first gear.

“I sure as hell don’t,” I said as I turned up the stereo. The sound of loud guitars and pounding drums blared from the speakers and chased away the remainder of the conversation.

I watched as the Ross girls backed out of my driveway and headed back to a life that didn’t include me.  The next day at school a friend of Christi’s told me she didn’t like anymore. This filled me with a mixture of emotions that included pride, anger and a little bit of sadness. I never talked to her again. Not one word. I acted like I didn’t see her when we passed each other in the hallways, and I didn’t call her when our phone got turned back on a couple of months later. It’s just as well. I was definitely the wrong guy for her if she couldn’t handle a little family drama every once in a while. Besides, if I kept going over to her house to watch movies, her mom would have eventually turned me into a diabetic. Things happen for a reason.

Some names have been changed to protect the innocent.

One-Way Ticket to a Better Life

By Patrick Best

(Written January 16^th, 2013)

Please send thoughts and prayers in the direction of my dear friends Perry Willis (Britt) and Mike Willis tonight. They lost their wonderful mother, Sheila, today after a long illness. She was a generous and loving woman who welcomed me into her home and her heart like I was one of her own. She was one of the people who helped keep me optimistic and hopeful during some fairly dark days in my teenage years, and, for that, I will be forever grateful.

I was fortunate enough to get to visit with her at the hospital for a couple of days last week, and her warmth and sense of humor were just as strong as they were when I first met her 28 or so years ago. One of the many things I will always remember about Sheila is that she always listened to everything her sons and their knucklehead friends had to say. Really listen. That's a rare and valuable thing to a teenager. She didn't always agree with what we had to say (or did, for that matter), but she made us feel like our opinions mattered.

Some of my fondest teenage memories happened at their little house off Hwy. 231 just past Deloney's IGA. I can still see her sitting in their livingroom with her legs pulled underneath her in her comfy chair, her reading glasses on, and a brand new paperback romance novel in her hand. I'm convinced that Fabio was able to pay for at least one chest wax and a Botox treatment per month thanks to Sheila. We would crash through the front door right past her like wild animals, crank up the stereo or turn on the TV, and all she would do is smile, peek over the top of her glasses, exhale slowly and dryly say "Well... helloooo." or "Welcome home, boys.".

Sheila was the person who bought me the one-way Greyhound bus ticket that got me out of Ozark, Alabama and into a better future. If she didn't spend that $87, I would have never met my wife, I wouldn't have my two beautiful children and I probably wouldn't have the strong relationship I have with my father, step-mother and brothers today. The world was definitely a better place with Sheila in it, but I know she is in a better place for her tonight.

Jenny's Wrong Number

By Patrick Best

I fell asleep at about 10:45 last night. I had a big dinner, a few drinks and I was out. That’s all folks! Happy New Year! Around 3 a.m. I was awakened by the sound of our house phone ringing. It rang only once, but it was enough to shake me from my dreams of collard greens and black-eyed peas. I struggled to sit up, my body feeling heavy like I was wearing one of those lead vests they make you put on when you get an x-ray. Susie got to the phone first, but when she picked it up she stared at it like it was some strange object that had just fallen out of the sky.

“Who was it?” I said with a thick tongue, my eyes opening and shutting over and over like a ventriloquist dummy.

“I don’t know. Hold on a second.” Anyone else who heard her tone would have thought she was angry at me. After nearly a quarter century of waking up next to her, I knew she was still trying to shake out the cobwebs. She’s kinda like a momma grizzly bear when she gets disturbed unexpectedly: she bites first, asks questions later.

“Check the Caller ID,” I said urgently. I had that same weird, nervous energy I get in a bad storm when I know it’s time to head for cover.

“I am!” she said, now very much awake and a bit perturbed with me for stating the obvious. “It says the last call came from the Publix Pharmacy… yesterday morning.”

I grabbed the phone to see for myself, but, of course, the display screen told me the same thing. Concern and questions wrestled in my head like a Georgia Championship Wrestling bout between Wildfire Tommy Rich and “The American Dream” Dusty Rhodes. ‘Who called? Why did they call? Are the kids okay? No one calls our house phone anymore except telemarketers… and the Publix Pharmacy. No one calls at this hour unless there’s trouble. This can’t be good.'

We both grabbed our cell phones to check to see if we’d missed any calls. We hadn’t. Zach and Morgan were not at home, so our minds went to them first. We knew Zach was out ringing in the New Year with his childhood friends, and Morgan was in Moultrie visiting with her boyfriend and his family. My mind went to Zach first. Last year’s New Year’s Day morning found me at Rockdale Hospital emergency room with him while he got stitches in the area between his upper lip and his nose. It wasn’t a great way to start 2012.

Susie checked Facebook to see if there might be any indicators of trouble there. Zach had made a couple of posts after midnight, so we were pretty sure he was probably still out celebrating. Morgan had made no posts.

“You call Morgan and I’ll call Zach, Susie.” I said totally engaged and in Dad mode now.

“No. It’s after 3.”

“Fine!” I said. I’m the Nervous Nellie in our relationship, so I knew I had to call them both if I was going to be able to go back to sleep.

Morgan finally answered after about six rings. “Hey… Dad?” she said sleepily.

“Hey sweetie. Did you call the house phone?” I asked stupidly.

"No," she replied. Of course she had not called the house phone. She was asleep. We talked for no more than 45 seconds and said our goodbyes.

When I called Zach he answered after one ring. That’s unusual – it usually takes at least four rings for him to decide whether he wants to pick up or not. I’m sure he was just as concerned to see my name pop up on his phone that late as I was when I pressed Send on his number.

“Hey! What’s up?” he said in a voice that sounded surprised, worried and very much awake.

“You okay?” I said.

“Yeah, why? You okay?”

“Yes. Sorry. Someone called the house phone and hung up, so we were worried about you…” My tone immediately changed from concerned to chipper. Well... probably a little more goofy, awkward school girl than chipper. I asked him what he was doing, who he was with, said ‘Happy New Year’, and got off the phone feeling embarrassed, but relieved.

I couldn’t go back to sleep for hours after that call. I racked my brain to come up with who else would have called so late. Family? Nah. They wouldn't have just let it ring once if something was wrong. I have a friend who sometimes drinks too much beer and calls in the wee hours of the morning, but he’s not the kind of fellow who lets it ring once and hangs up because he notices the time. When he calls late at night it’s because all the clocks in his world have stopped and he wants – no, needs - to talk about rock-n-roll and the crazy things we did together in the 1980s.

Maybe they called the wrong number, I thought. Maybe it was someone who was calling a friend to come pick them up because they were too drunk to drive, but they were off by one number. Maybe they noticed that errant digit as they stared blurry-eyed at the display on their iPhone and pressed End just as the first ring on our house phone occurred. I’m sure that girl – for some reason I imagine it’s a girl named Jenny – felt terrible about possibly waking the person she accidentally called. I pictured her clenching her teeth, squinting her eyes and waiting for her own phone to ring. She expected to answer and hear an angry man’s voice say “I just received a call from this number. Do you know what time it is?!”

I’m sure Jenny will wake up sometime this afternoon and look at her phone. She’ll notice our number and remember when her clumsy, drunk fingers dialed it at dark thirty this morning. She’s a nice girl with lots of friends and parents that she loves dearly, so she’ll feel a pang of guilt in her stomach. She’ll want to call our number to apologize and explain to us that she’d had a few too many martinis and ‘just wanted to get home safe’. Instead, she’ll take two Advils, drink a glass of orange juice and lie on the couch and decide that it’s best just to let it go. She’s pretty sure she pressed End before the call went through anyway.