sludgo’s Mile Markers

My secretary Suzanne softly knocked on the door of my office and cracked it open. I put down my cold turkey sub then took a gulp of my flat root beer and furrowed my brow at her. She quietly apologized for interrupting my lunch break then told me a client of mine had just called and said he was five minutes away and was coming in to see me. Told me she’d told him I was at lunch and booked all afternoon but he’d said he’d come in anyway. Told her he had to see me even if it was just for a second or two because it was an emergency so he’d wait however long he had to and then he’d hung up. She gave me a weary smile then asked if I wanted her to put him off when he arrived. That she could try and squeeze him in for a formal appointment tomorrow or the day after but I waved her off. Told her an emergency is an emergency. Said I’d see him when he showed up, check out what was going on, and take it from there. Then I turned my attention back to my sandwich but before I could take a bite I heard the front doorbell jingle.

I’ll never forget the guy. Had literally thousands of clients over my thirty-five years of practice but there are only a handful who come to memory and he’s one of them. Kendall Tenfeathers, a full-blooded and enrolled member of the Seminoka tribe. Please note at this point that my attorney prefers I announce hereby and forthwith that that’s not Kendall’s real name and that’s not a real tribe and there are a few details in this story that have been altered to protect various identities but, rest assured, Kendall was real. Very.

He was a giant of a man—six-foot seven and easily three-hundred-plus pounds with a heart even bigger than he was. Never married and with no kids, he always cared far too much far too often about far too many, spending all his days and nights taking care of everyone and anyone except himself. Chronically felt lonely and sad and useless and soon discovered that demon rum helped soothe many of those ills but unfortunately brought its own type of sickness. He’d recently consulted with his medicine man, who’d told him his liver was failing and it was time he got off the sauce, or else. The doc also kindly reminded him that the judge in Kendall’s DUI case wanted him to get off the sauce too, or else. And that’s how he initially ended up at my office.

At first he was resistant, but they’re all resistant at first, and sooner than later after some gentle reasoning on my part he’d warmed to the idea of sitting down for an hour or so every week to talk to me about things he didn’t want to talk about. I think it helped win his trust that I had my old Guild D-50 snakehead parked adjacent to the couch. A big and bold-sounding sunburst battle-axe of a guitar, Kendall noticed it right away. Smiled at me and pointed at it and asked if I played but before I could answer told me he’d played ever since he was a little boy, some sixty years ago. Said his Mom had taught him, but then suddenly seemed to choke up.

I let the moment pass. Gave him some space and after a count or more handed him a tissue. He wiped his eyes and blew his nose then pointed at the guitar asked if he could give it a go. ‘You bet,’ I said. Asked if he took requests and laughed with him when he told me he always took them, but never played them. Nothing like an old musician’s joke to break the ice.

He picked up the guitar and I watched his meaty hands come to life on the strings, deftly dancing up and down the fretboard. He spun into a medley of songs and melodies I’d never heard before using a virtuosic mix of every style I could think. Finished playing after three or four minutes with a resounding and victorious thumb-thump on the pick guard and I applauded enthusiastically. Told him he was great but he humbly shook his head.

“Well, I had a great teacher,” he replied softly, then teared up again.

Over the next six months I learned a lot about Kendall. Discovered he’d been a man’s man—a Golden Gloves boxer first then a lumberjack and then a railroad worker—yet proudly proclaimed he remained a ‘Mama’s Boy’ to the core and I saw no evidence to the contrary. He adored the woman—idolized her—and with good reason. Early on in life she’d found herself widowed with three young kids who had to be fed and clothed and housed, and she’d done all that and more for them by herself. Heroically. Stoically. And successfully. To the point where she’d treated herself to a brand-new red Ford Torino GT when she made management at the feed plant. Kendall still had it. Liked to pick her up in it on nice days from MorningView, the memory place she lived at then out in the valley, and take her for a ride. They’d stop for ice cream somewhere along the way then go back to her room where he’d play some of the old songs for her. She’d usually sing along as he’d play, harmonizing with her gentle soprano voice like she’d done with him ever since he was a little boy. And she’d been getting along fine at MorningView, but recently had taken a serious turn for the worse. Her heart again. So when I saw Kendall that day at lunch in my lobby and noticed the look on his face I had a pretty good idea what he wanted to talk about.

I pointed him into my office and he walked in and slumped down on my couch and immediately began to sob. Collected himself after a bit then started talking. Told me he’d gone to see his mom that morning like usual but she couldn’t remember his name or even who he was. Said he was surprised at how hard that stung but he’d brought his guitar with so he moved past it and started playing her a song: “California Dreaming,” a tune he’d played for her for years. And as he was playing she’d started to sing along and some lights flickered back on in her dark-brown eyes and when they’d finished and the last chord had faded out she’d leaned into him and said ‘Thank you, Kendall.’

When he heard her say his name he’d smiled at her with relief. Had given her a big hug then told her he’d be back later with the GT and they’d go for a ride but when he got home there was a message on his answering machine. From MorningView. There’d be no more rides in the Torino with Mom.

I frowned at him. Reached out and put my hand on his massive shoulder. Didn’t say a thing. Just let him cry.

It was beautiful today as I buzzed across town in the ‘B on my way to visit the Beehive at her new digs, an ‘independent residence’ at a local ‘senior retirement center.’ She moved in a couple weeks ago after crashing with me for a few months at the McBungalow and has adapted to the change surprisingly well. To be honest, her new apartment is super. We held out for a top floor unit and the one we finally were offered was worth the wait. Situated at the very far end of the hallway, it’s big and bright and airy and every evening offers a panoramic view of the sun setting serenely over the foothills. The facility itself is staffed by a gang of cheery young professionals who keep all the old guys and gals busy with activities and exercise classes and concerts and movies and games. There’s also a skilled kitchen crew headed by a real-life chef who keeps everyone well-fed, serving up a wide variety of tasty menu selections daily. Now, it’s all costing a pretty penny, and I’m glad we’ve got it to spend, because it truly is the best place for her to be living. But there’s no question a sad reality underlies the circumstance, a reality I saw yesterday when I was saying goodbye to her after my visit. For the first time ever she couldn’t remember my name. Told me she knew I was her son, but couldn’t think of my gosh-darned name to save her life. I smiled at her and told her my name and not to worry about it but couldn’t help but remember Kendall from way back when. Struck me that I was feeling how he must’ve felt. Kind of kicked in the gut. But I also recalled what had helped in his situation so before I left the house this morning I made sure to grab a guitar. Thought if the Beehive was having the same name game problem today I’d play her a song or two like Kendall did with his Mom and hope for similar results. I’d start by strumming her a few by one of her favorites, Glen Campbell. Wichita Lineman. Rhinestone Cowboy. Galveston. Move on to Johnny Cash or Charley Pride. Then some Willie and Waylon. I’d be willing to try anything.

I just want her to remember my name.