Published Essays & Stories

Always Be The Water

Last weekend, while strolling along what I refer to as “the apron” – a beautiful stretch of beach in Montauk that Mother Nature has so graciously provided - I came upon a large, cylindrical piece of wood; more or less the size of two wine casks stacked one upon another. On most days, I would have elected to continue my walking meditation, not devoting much thought or attention to such “debris” as I’ve grown accustomed to doing, but for whatever reason, I decided to take a moment and situate myself some 20 yards away from where the misplaced tree trunk appeared to teeter-totter upon a slightly elevated diagonal crest of sand.

Over the course of a half hour, I observed the ebb and flow - how it affected this hefty intruder on what was otherwise a pristine, sun-drenched mid-October morning. I contemplated whether the full force of Nature would eventually throw itself upon the helpless castaway, carrying it back out to sea, or would it envelop the piece, cradling it like a young child that had just awoken from a nightmare, and place it gently upon the powdery-soft sand above the rocky wash line?

I’m not quite sure why, but in that instant, a passage that I’d read a few months earlier from George Washington Carver, had come to mind - and it reads as such, “How far you go in life depends on your being tender with the young, compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving, and tolerant of the weak and strong – because someday in life, you will have been all of these.”

I found myself thinking about how often we tend to forget that we were once “that way,” when confronted with situations that bring us to a stance of inflexibility and an unwillingness to concede. I thought about how, as a preschool instructor, on a daily basis, I’m reminded of the importance of “softening my presence” -- so much so, that I’ve coined the phrase, “always be the water, never the fire.” My colleagues get a kick out of hearing it, but it’s so applicable. In the limitless world of a 3-yr old starting school, it’s all about fire. The initial experience of separation anxiety, in constant motion, learning boundaries through hard knocks, frequent conflict with their peers; if I were to meet each of those encounters with fire rather than water, it would make for a very draining day, to say the least.

As this mindfulness eventually subsided, I slowly stood up, stretching my legs to increase the circulation. While doing so, an almost magical, co-existing movement occurred at the water’s edge; whereupon a large wave, seemingly from nowhere (as the ocean was near lake-like that day), came crashing down, rushing beneath the oversized log, elevating it just enough to roll over, some 180 degrees. What was revealed on its now skyward, exposed side, literally gave me goosebumps. An intricate, yet simple rendering of a woman’s soulful face, at least two feet in length, carved several inches deep into the wood, stared back at me, as if to say, “What took you so long?” It’s crude, chiseled cuts were not unlike a totem pole, with gripped hands and square-ish feet appearing further down the sculpted piece.

Despite my usual impulse to “capture the moment” on film, I decided to stay present, choosing to comfort her by sliding my fingers along the beveled grooves of hair that framed her stoic, yet distressed gaze. I assured her that the journey which brought her to this sacred place was worthwhile. That all who’ve come before her, have found solace in her welcoming shores. That with each passing storm, the landscape adjusts, evolves, and presents an opportunity for renewal. That as much as we seek the permanence of the ground we walk upon, it’s the fluidity of Mother Nature that reminds us to always be the water.

All Things Considered

The sunset was intoxicating. One of those beautiful, magenta-purple washes that covers the entire length of the horizon. It had become my favorite time of day down at the beach since taking the rental in Montauk for the summer -- an attempt at returning to a place of comfort, escaping the harsh reality of a bitterly painful post-divorce existence. Almost a three hour drive from my stark, near furniture-less apartment, I had once again found myself milking every drop from the weekend; anything to avoid the city-bound mass exodus.

I recall the tide slowly making its way up toward my weathered blanket, so in one quick motion I raised it above my head like a loose sail on a schooner, watching the day’s dried sand and other assorted morsels blow carelessly into the wind. Off in the distance, only a handful of local surfers were still working the swells – fearless knights hoping to slay one last dragon before retreating valiantly to their favorite watering hole. With the deafening sound of screaming babies and equally offensive tourist-babble having long departed westward, I decided to run up to the house and grab my seldom-used casting rod, if only to wet my line.

Unlike football or hockey (two sports that I truly excelled at during my youth), fishing has always been a double-edged sword. Over the years I’ve enjoyed the act of fishing and the rush of it all, but then get quite squeamish whenever I’ve had to remove a hook – a rather embarrassing badge of folly that I’ve worn since the early days of fishing with my father out on the East End. Nevertheless, feeling a sudden jolt on the line after hours of repetitious casting sends a shiver down my spine. Watching the pole move forward and back like a metronome, my thoughts become frozen in a trance-like state. I tend to lose all sense of time, becoming oblivious to those around me who are vicariously swept up in my moment of Zen.

Even my mind has been known to play tricks as I try to gain control of the situation. Quite often I’ve pictured a mermaid doing back flips in the surf as my catch becomes an airborne missile, trying desperately to shed the embedded hook from its tender mouth. Or the time I thought I’d snagged a half-eaten human leg, tennis shoe intact, when in fact it was only a piece of driftwood caught in the cross-current. I can thank Mr. Spielberg for that impressionable memory, for as an inquisitive 12 yr old, I had sneaked in to see the premiere of Jaws playing down at the local theatre one rainy summer afternoon. I guess you could say that as an adult, I’ve come to appreciate surfcasting more for the therapeutic effect that the scenery and all have on my psyche, rather than actually wanting to catch a fish.

Upon exiting the garage with rod and tackle box in tow, I could hear the faint cries of seagulls getting louder as they approached from the south – most likely following a school of wayward mackerel. Within minutes, the ocean in front of me would come alive with turbulent fury, like an impending summer storm. My heart began pounding as I raced down the faded gray walkway that leads to the beach. To my dismay, there wasn’t a single fisherman charging into the surf – a sight I’d been accustomed to seeing as a kid, when the waters churned like this.

As I approached my resting spot at the end of the path, I hastily threw down the overstuffed rusted box, sending a lifetime of fishing gear exploding in all directions. Everywhere I looked, half-buried hooks, assorted knives, and multi-colored plugs of all shapes and sizes were strewn about. Utterly frustrated, but not wanting to further waste time, I sought out one of my favorite lures that my father had given to me for my eighth birthday; a Bucktail Kastmaster, its cloudy-silver head barely visible among the mess below me.

With surprising speed and dexterity, I was able to pry open the leader and attach the lure with one hand, while my other supported the rod. As I pulled on the flat metal plug to ensure its snugness, the darkening sky became a blanket of birds – reckless kamikazes dive-bombing into the once placid waters just beyond the breakers. Within seconds, I carefully navigated my way through a trough of rocks deposited at the water’s edge, wading chest-high into the rising surf. In one sweeping motion, I reached back and heaved the metal decoy with all of my strength, watching it plunge into the rippled insanity. Yet just as I flipped the bail to remove all slack, the line went taught, nearly yanking the entire ensemble from my grip.

Not looking to exert that much effort, my first thought was that maybe this fish was out of my league, and that I should save both of us the time by cutting it loose; undoubtedly a pattern I’d become quite accustomed to throughout my marriage. For better or worse, I decided to hang in until it was rather apparent I was out over my head. After flailing helplessly for what seemed a lifetime, I realized the futility in fighting this mismatched battle from such dark, turbulent waters. So in a desperate effort to gain leverage, I began back-pedaling toward shore.

Once I emerged from the tepid sea, the bite of the cool evening air sent a shiver down my spine. What I hadn’t calculated was just how far up the embankment I’d actually withdrawn; for just as my dominant adversary, a hefty striper at least 3 feet long, broke loose from the frayed and weakened twine that had connected us, the sudden imbalance propelled me backward into the forgotten heap of fishing paraphernalia, launching my pole skyward in the process. I couldn’t help but remain motionless as the rising full moon, in an almost perversely comedic way, provided just enough light to watch my ebony casting rod slither into the surf like a rigidly defiant eel.

For a change, the once dreaded three-hour drive back to the city was starting to look pretty good to me.

A Cut Above The Rest

Published in The Improper Hamptonian©

“Yous kids don’t put any effort into your marriages,” I remember him saying one year, as we sat down for our traditional Italian Christmas Eve dinner. I guess it was hard to argue with him on that one – seeing each of his four girls were either separated or divorced, and not one of us was over the age of 30 at the time.

It was tough to tell whether it was his wallet that was talking, or the fact that immediately after high school, each of us left town for the Big Apple, and married the wrong guy, one after the other – and that made for some laughs down at his shop.

You see, in small towns, especially here on the North Fork, everyone knows your business. Pop’s barbershop was the place for conducting business, at least for the men. Consequently, the haircut itself seemed to be an afterthought for most of his regulars.

Pop would say that it was a chance for the men to catch up on “manly matters,” whatever that meant, or as Mama once tried to explain to me, “those subjects that one didn’t feel comfortable discussing in mixed company over at Hammaker’s General Store.”

Growing up, I remember Saturdays as being his busiest day of the week, so he’d warn us not to get in his way. Sometimes I’d sneak into town on my bike and hide behind the big oak tree across the way, just to watch him work his magic. He must have had his favorites, because there’d already be a half-dozen store owners from town standing outside his one-chair shop, each with a folded fat newspaper tucked under his arm – anxiously waiting for Pop’s arrival.

I recall Mr. Walsh, a rather nervous-looking man who ran things over at the Savings and Loan, being quite prompt for his monthly trim, especially when there was a line forming outside - though on one particular occasion, he must have overslept. As he was leaving the bank, he didn’t see me pedaling alongside the building and knocked me clear off my bike. It didn’t hurt much, but all you saw was newspaper and money littering the ground. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why a man who worked in such a place needed to carry so much money at one time, or better yet in need of a haircut for that matter (seeing he was bald), but who was I to question his ways? Whatever the case, it was awfully nice of him to offer me a brand-new dollar bill when I helped pick it all up, but I refused, seeing as Pop wouldn’t have much approved.

Old man Hammaker was also one of Pop’s favorites. Every holiday, without exception, he’d stop by the shop to drop off the most tastefully decorated gift baskets you’d ever seen. They looked like tropical waterfalls, overflowing with exotic fruits and vegetables that we couldn’t even pronounce. By the looks of the sparsely-stocked shelves in his own store, I couldn’t imagine how he could afford to do such a thing, but he never seemed to mind going out of his way to please Pop. No one minded. In fact, I’d become so good at predicting who would be coming by, and on what day of the month, that my Mama once told me that if the weather man was half as accurate as I was, we’d have a lot more tourists visiting our town on any given weekend.

While most of the town’s residents were attending services, Sunday mornings were always his time for taking inventory and organizing the shop’s storage room. With nothing better to do, I’d sometimes sit cross-legged in the big leather chair, watching his peculiar routine. I couldn’t understand why he’d make such an effort to remove tons of stuff from the boxes with fancy-name companies, only to re-pack it in cheap brown boxes labeled “shampoo.”

One time, when the curiosity was just too much to take, I’d asked Mama why he did such a thing, and she simply replied that he saves the good boxes for Mr. Martino’s florist shop to pick up each Monday morning. Pop never stopped thinking of others.

I can’t recall the exact circumstances, but I’ll never forget when he once said, “You can never measure a man’s value and service to his community while he’s alive.” It wasn’t until soon after his unfortunate collision with a cement truck, that I truly understood just how many lives he touched along the way.

On the day of his funeral, a winter morning in which most hearty East Enders would have thought twice about setting foot outside their homes, an endless line of black limousines, filled with mourners from as far away as Chicago, snaked its way through the ice and frozen snow of our one-horse town. You’d have thought it was the Pope himself that had left this beautiful earth.

Carry Their Souls: After 9/11

Published in Befriending Death: Over 100 Essays on Living and Dying©

Despite the president calling for a “return to normalcy” and suggesting that the public “go out shopping,” I find myself a changed man.

How can one ignore the countless stories of rescue efforts made that day, and in the weeks that followed? Selfless acts of heroism carried out by firefighters, police, and emergency workers (the real heart and soul that this great city was built upon), entering skyscrapers that would soon be leveled. Not to mention the numerous ordinary citizens assisting others to safety, at the risk of their own peril. If that isn’t the epitome of a true hero, I don’t know what is.

No Mr. President, with all due respect, from this day forward I’ve chosen to “carry the souls” of others who didn’t make it out that day – on my shoulders, as a firefighter would – giving them the life they so honorably deserve. One that was snuffed out prematurely. A father who will never witness his newborn’s first birthday. A mother who won’t get the chance to watch her daughter’s high school graduation. Individuals with dreams and aspirations. A life I now feel compelled to finish for them, to be filled with exponential vigor, passion, and strength. It’s a different world, and I am rising to the occasion. It’s the least I can do for the survivors of those families most directly affected.

Surfing With Angels: A Short Short Story

"They said it would be a death wish to be out on the water during the storm. The ride of my life. Mission accomplished"

VidalIa

Written by Dave Davis

I guess that I can’t blame Mr. Wallace for installing the retro-style “ICE” sign this week, only a few days into the peak fall season. The way business has been lately, he’s going to need all the help he can get.

Its bright red neon lettering, combined with the rows of cloudy-white fluorescent tubes on the ceiling, now bathes my entire half of the sandwich counter in an industrial pink glow. It hangs rather precariously from one of the many water-stained tiles using several twisted wires and rattles against the glass whenever the front and rear entrances to the store are opened – which sadly, even with the striper blitz in full swing, isn’t that often. I have to say, what disturbs me most about this artificial addition to the family, is the blinding reflection it casts against the glass, making it nearly impossible for me to see outside, day or night.

Since becoming a year ‘rounder (a term I’ve found the locals use rather poignantly to differentiate themselves from the recent influx of second-home owners), I’ve grown quite accustomed to my confined, yet unobstructed view of the world. I haven’t always been so lucky. Working for the past five years as a lunch and dinner “prepper” at Jacques’ (one of the best Parisian-style bistros in Midtown Manhattan), my daily view never extended much beyond the onions and various other items spread out before me.

During daylight hours, a scheduled 15-minute break between 2 and 3 o’clock in the afternoon was my only connection to the hustle and bustle of the city streets; hardly enough time to soak in a vibe of any sort, let alone run to the pharmacy for a few hygienic essentials.

Prior to that, I worked Downtown as a mail sorter for an international lingerie company. After a while, the novelty of processing orders from people of all shapes and sizes from around the world (it sounded so enticing in the want ad), began to wear off.

I’d tried to relieve some of the boredom by creating a little game that I played with the other workers on my shift. Each time one of us came across an order from a country we’d never heard of, that person had to describe to the others what they thought the person from that country would look like, all the way down to the tiniest of details. As you can probably guess, with the product line being undergarments, some of the descriptions began to take on a life of their own.

Of course my situation her at Wallace’s seems almost trivial compared to some of the others, especially that of my friend Jessica, who works only a block down the street at McKenzie’s Market. Back in May, Newsday’s food critic (who I just found out happens to be a former sorority sister of Mrs. McKenzie), wrote this column titled, “Long Island’s Hidden Treasures.” It basically hailed Mrs. McKenzie’s vegetarian chili as being “worth the price of gold!”

Needless to say, like most treasures that the media gets hold of, McKenzie’s chili lost its “hidden” status rather quickly. From Memorial Day Weekend to Labor Day, there was a line of vacationers outside their store starting at 11 o’clock each morning, salivating to get in. Just last week, I overheard a conversation that Mr. Wallace was having with his accountant while I was preparing his takeout order. They had calculated that, at the ridiculous price of 14 bucks a quart, the profit from McKenzie’s chili alone probably exceeded everything else they sold, combined!

My friend Charli had a similar problem over at Fannie’s Foods. To compete with the onslaught at McKenzie’s, just before the 4th of July holiday weekend, her boss made her hang these hideous-looking signs scrawled on butcher paper that covered each of the four humongous front windows of the store. In big, bold letters that were supposed to look like fireworks exploding, she wrote, “Summer Lunch Special! – Only $3.99.” To say that business was booming over at Fannie’s this past summer would be an understatement.

One afternoon when Mr. Wallace was in the city attending a grocer’s convention, I took it upon myself to make what I thought was an anonymous call to the police (even lowering my voice to add a few years), complaining that the sign over at Fannie’s, not to mention the line of people snaking down the sidewalk each day, was becoming a real eyesore to our once quaint fishing village and that something should be done immediately before things really got out of hand.

What I hadn’t known until Mr. Wallace explained it to me rather tersely the next day when he returned, was that Fannie has been providing the East End chapter of the P.B.A. with free catering ever since Lt. D’Angelo pulled her 7 year old son from a dangerous riptide that nearly swept him out to sea. To add salt to the wound, a few hours after I phoned (Charli said it was the caller ID at the police station that had given me away), a smaller, less conspicuous sign appeared on Fannie’s front door offering a 10% discount to all Civil Service employees who present proper identification.

The one that really took the cake this summer, was the outrageous deal that Mr. Albertson from the discount beer distributor cut with his ex-wife Denise, who owns the bake shop only two doors down from him. As part of their settlement, he devised a win-win situation whereby she agreed not to air his dirty laundry if he could increase her business significantly. With the help of some advertising friends of his on Madison Avenue, they ran a slick cross-promotional ad campaign in every publication out here, offering a “2 for 1” on all six-packs of beer with the purchase of a dozen doughnuts from her shop.

It wasn’t too difficult to see which guys took full advantage of that scheme each morning before heading to the beach; they were usually the ones walking by our store with powdered sugar or jelly all over their faces while juggling a brown bag or two under each arm.

The one-upmanship of this Seinfeld-esque competition among seaside businesses would be hilarious, if it weren’t at the expense of the Wallaces. Only recently did I learn that nearly every dime he makes from the business goes to the bank to pay back a loan he took out after his mother’s terminal illness drained them of every cent they had socked away. With two sons, Connor and Cori, at least a dozen years away from taking over the business, I’m not about to watch this all-too-honest captain go down with his ship, if I have anything to say about it.

With the annual Harvest Festival expected to bring an incredible 15,000 tourists to town next weekend, it should give me plenty of time to nail down the proper proportions for Jacques’ internationally acclaimed recipe for French onion soup that I’ll be entering into this year’s contest as “The Wallace Wonder.” The very same recipe about which the Zagat restaurant guide was quoted as saying, “If you close your eyes, you’ll think you’re in Paris!”

I figure that at the reasonable price of $10 a quart (so as not to raise any suspicion), if a third of the folks coming to this shindig take one home, maybe the ICE sign will be gone by Tuesday.