Eric Sazer

Oh, Madeline

At Boston University, I befriended a quiet musician named Fred. We had many deep late-night conversations. Then, one day, he lost his mind and had to return home to Maryland.

Fred and I stayed in contact throughout his recovery. He still possessed his charm, humor, and musical prowess. Adjusting to his newly-medicated life wasn’t easy. He suggested I come visit—he didn’t have many friends anymore.

The trip to Bethesda from Penn Station was painless. Just one quick transfer at Washington Union Station, and I was there. We didn’t go straight to his parents’ house. First, a pit stop at the supermarket. His mother had written a grocery list that looked like it had been scribed in the 15th century. She might’ve used a quill.

Fred nearly tore the list into pieces, but I insisted he hand it over as a souvenir.

“That might be worth money,” I told him. He handed it over. God knows where it is now.

Fred’s mother, Madeline, greeted me like one of her own—two kisses on each cheek, a wrist squeeze, multiple hugs, and a stream of “so happy to see you!”

I bonded with Fred’s entire family. They hated it when I left, always insisting I come back soon.

Every couple of months, I’d return for a three-to-five-day visit. On one trip, Fred got sick suddenly and needed bed rest. His father and sister were out of town. It was just Madeline and me, tending to Fred—chatting until nearly 1 a.m., taking long walks, laughing over silly TV shows.

As the years went on, it wasn’t Fred who kept in touch—it was Madeline. She sent weekly emails updating me on Fred’s mental health.

Fred’s younger sister, Jackie, moved to Chicago to pursue dentistry.

Fred’s parents eventually divorced.

Once the divorce was final, Madeline’s emails came daily.

“When can I see you?”

“I’m coming to New York for a conference—would be nice to stay with you somewhere.”

I thought about checking in with Fred—see how his mother was doing emotionally—but didn’t want to worry him. So yes, I met Madeline in a hotel lobby. We had drinks, laughs—it felt like the old days in Bethesda, minus the fireplace and the howling wind against the windows.

“I’m staying here,” Madeline winked. “The rooms are phenomenal. Wanna check them out?”

Oh god. My biology short-circuited. I did want to check out the room—and much more. But Madeline was Fred’s mother. That would be weird… or would it? It had been years since Fred and I shared a beer. We were well past our college years.

“What the hell,” I found myself saying.

Next thing I knew, we were in her hotel room. Madeline was leaning against a pillar, sipping wine, suddenly dressed in this one-piece, semi-transparent outfit. I’ll never forget that pattern: a hummingbird hovering around each nipple, and a cluster of roses doing their best to obscure what couldn’t be obscured.

It was a sleepless night—sweat, longing, yelps, and a crap ton of alcohol.

After that, contact with Madeline faded. Where her emails had been weekly, I started hearing from her twice a month. Then quarterly. Then just a Happy Birthday message once a year. For the past decade, I don’t know if she still walks this earth.

Fred, wherever you are—please forgive me. You were a great friend with an unforgettable family. Maybe this Mother’s Day weekend, you’ll celebrate with joy and lots of music.

And maybe, just maybe, the affiliate link above reminds you of life’s stranger pleasures. Celebrate them.

I’m On Edge?

Maybe I am.

Sure, being single sucks — but I thought I was fine until last Thursday. I was out in the garden, yanking weeds, whistling Dixie, and a handful of other tunes.

That is, until the honking started.

Relentless.

All coming from Doug’s house.

I pulled off my gardening gloves and headed over.

The moment he saw me, Doug shouted, “Go back home, Mr. Edgy!”

What the hell was he talking about?

I was the one minding my own business.

He was the one sitting in the driver’s seat, blaring his horn at god only knows what.

“You alright, Doug?”

“Am I alright?”

He walked toward me — a momentary break from the honking.

“You’re the one always on edge. Always coming over, complaining about one thing or another.”

“Doug, you’re the one blaring the horn.”

“See what I mean?”

“I was checking on you. Making sure you’re okay.”

“Go home. Doug. Find a hobby. Knitting would be perfect for you.”

I left without a word.

Hopped on Amazon.

Bought this knitting kit.

Two days later, I set up a camping chair on my driveway, adjacent to my car.

Opened the kit and went to town on a winter hat.

Every few minutes, I’d pause from knitting to blare my horn.

Doug, sadly, never came to check on me.

A few other neighbors, however, glanced over with grave concern.

“All’s well!” I called out. “Just working on a new project.”

In between the bundles of yarn — and through these words on the page is an affiliate link.

Dougie Wuggy Road

The man is 82, almost 83, yet acts like a child sometimes. Yes, I’m talking about Doug again. How can I not?

The town board considered renaming the road Dougie Wuggy Road. There are only seven other houses on the block. Why was I the neighbor blessed with receiving Doug’s midnight calls?

His latest? Since returning from his reunion, he’s been complaining about his sheets. They aren’t as comfortable as the ones at the hotel. The sheets at home stick to his leg, producing an uncomfortable insomnia.

“But you’re an insomniac,” I reminded him. “I can show you my phone records.”

“It’s the sheets, I tell you.”

He went on like this for days. Finally, I hopped on Amazon and researched the hell out of the best sheets fit for an insomniac. Found these bed sheets. 100% cotton sateen… luxury… blah blah blah. Expensive, but possibly well worth the cost if I could get my sleep back.

Two days later they arrived. Knocked on his door. Pushed past Doug as if I owned the place.

Ripped the old bed sheets off.

Put on the new ones. So soft. So yummy. So worthwhile testing out, but that would have been odd.

I was one million percent certain this would keep him in bed — if not for eight hours, then twelve.

The first three nights? Not one phone call. I was in the clear…

Until the fourth night. It was 1:15 a.m.

“Got a confession,” he started. “This insomnia has nothing to do with the sheets. At the reunion, I exercised. Walked. We drank tea instead of coffee.”

“So, let me get this right, Doug. You woke me up in the middle of the night to tell me that at home your habits are shit and I have to suffer because of that?”

He may have hung up. Possibly I hung up. Maybe I fell asleep mid-sentence.

All I know is, the next morning I was sipping coffee, looking out the window…

And there was Doug. Speed walking down the street.

In this excerpt depicting one of the most bizarre humans I’ve ever met is an affiliate link.

Doug’s Funhouse?

Doug’s Funhouse sounds like the title for an orgy porn. Guarantee you, it’s not.

He’s away on a reunion with old friends…literally. Doug might be the youngest one in attendance.

While he’s away, Doug wants to assure his plants stay alive. Why he asked me to tend to his plants is beyond me. One plant, resembling a young money tree, took a turn for the worse. Its leaves were bright, dark green when Doug first left. Three days later, they’ve browned.

There was a time when I thought I had a green thumb. Tended to a few gardens where cucumbers exploded to the hundreds. But isn’t that what cucumbers do?

Getting back to this funhouse concept, I was tempted initially to tidy his entire home. Everything similar would go into their own separate boxes. As I counted the number of categories of things Doug owned, I would buy Walmart out with all their plastic boxes. I’d still run short and then have to take a trip to Staples. No…thank…you

Organizing another person’s crap is no fun, anyhow. So, I sat on Doug’s massage chair, blasted Lonesome Doves, and pretended to be an eighty-two-year-old kleptomaniac. The vibration of the chair was so fierce, I couldn’t hear a thing..or maybe that was just me moaning?

Moaning from the vibration…not from being a sick pervert.

There’s only so much vibrating a man can do in one day. Just as I was about to head home, I saw it. The words “Soil Tester” was poking out of a pile of mail long before Doug head out on this reunion.

I pulled it out from under the mail. Turned it on and inserted the metal spike into each plant. All sorts of signals went off. I was alerted what needed water, what needed to be placed in sunlight and what would be left as is.

This soil moisture gauge is something else. Almost magical? I’m certain that money tree will turn around in a matter of days.

Honestly, this little device might be the only reason Doug still has a jungle to come home to.

For a second, I almost stuck the gauge up my ass, to see if I needed moisture, sun or if I was all good. Good thing reason stepped in.

There are two affiliate links in this post. Do with it as you will.

Friendship Application

You might be asking, “Who is this Doug character? Is this some kind of gimmick?”

My answer: Neighbor first. True friend second.

I can’t help but ponder friendship during this lonely time.

It started in March 2023, when I got a call from my mother: my father had taken a fall that could leave him a quadriplegic. I flew out to be with my family, and would you guess who called me regularly?

Not a soul.

This was before Doug. Before I was blessed with a stubborn, relentless, yet caring neighbor-turned-friend.

I used to believe that when tragedy strikes, the people in your life step up. I was wrong.

Dealing with my father’s near-full-body paralysis and my family’s emotional chaos, I didn’t have time to analyze who texted.

But I did notice who ghosted. Who disappeared. Who blocked me.

Let me be clear:

I’ve never been a perfect friend.

I love fiercely, but because of my Scorpionic nature, some confused that love with something sexual.

Have I crossed lines? Yes.

Said things I regret? Yes.

Lost my temper in moments of overwhelm? Absolutely.

And I’m sorry. Truly.

But none of my friends before Doug ever showed up with love, with boundaries, with real presence.

No one said, “Here’s how we fix this.”

No one said, “I care enough to confront this.”

Then came Doug.

I met him just before my father passed. And Doug and my father couldn’t be more different.

My father’s favorite position was sitting. Doug can barely tolerate sitting unless it’s in that vibrating spaceship of a massage chair.

My dad wheezed after half a city block. Doug yells at thunderstorms because they interfere with his daily twenty-mile hikes.

Maybe it’s generational. Most of my former friends are under 50 — some in their 30s. But men like Doug (82) or my dad (78)? They’re loyal.

They show up.

When my father died, it was Doug who called every day.

Doug who cooked me meals.

Doug who invited me over to watch a painfully boring Western, just to make sure I wasn’t alone.

Shoutout to one other friend — she spent time, energy, and money to attend my dad’s funeral. Regular contact dropped off after that, and there’s no hard feelings. She’s navigating a full life.

And that’s what made me realize, it’s not about political beliefs. It’s about showing up when it matters.

As for me, I could give two shits if you voted for a racist or a goddamn hobbit boot.

That said, I’ve walked away from people too. Not for who they voted for, but because they couldn’t meet me in my emotional truth. Judgment without curiosity? I don’t do that anymore.

If I love you, I love you.

Everyone else?

You disappeared. You dipped. You stopped showing up.

That’s the truth.

And what has all of this taught me?

How to be a better friend.

How to show up, even when it’s awkward.

How to have hard conversations instead of ghosting people you once said you loved.

God knows how long Doug has left.

But for now, he teaches me what true friendship looks like in the most consistent form I’ve ever known.

So yes — I’m accepting new friendship applications.

Virtual, in-person, wherever the hell I am.

Let’s be real with each other. If I offend you, say something.

I’ll be more hurt if you vanish than if you speak your truth.

And yes, despite how raw this post was…

There’s still an affiliate link in here.

Because story is layered.

So is grief.

And apparently… so is capitalism.

Minimalist At War

If I were an architect, all homes would resemble a high school gymnasium. In my home, I’d remove the basketball hoops and the bleachers. Covering the windows would be a black-curtain that would close at 9:00 pm and then gently open as the sun rises.

There would be four pieces of furniture: A bed, armoire, a set of chairs and desk. Everything would be made of wood to match the floor.

Homes in the Hudson Valley are not designed this way. They are rickety. A magnet for horders. They scream “Look at me! I’m unique”.

I pondered all this while vaccuming my bedroom carpeting. If you ever used one, or been around anyone has, you know those machines can be loud. They scare the shit out of domesticated animals.

Once finished I heard my phone vibrating. I’ll give you three guesses who it was…

The postman? No!

Architectual digest offering me a gig? Guess again.

Hulu wondering when I’ll resubscribe? You’re terrible at this game.

Doug! Good old Doug, huffing like he just summited Mount Everest. “Been trying to call you. Please get over here now. The Amazon guy needs help.”

The Amazon guy needs help! Oh my God! Stop everything. I raced over there like it was Doug’s last breath…yeah, right?

Once I finally got there, the Amazon guy, a young, relatively muscular man panted while resting his right arm against a box the size of an average walk-in closet. “This thing’s a monster,” he said.

“What it?” I asked.

“Massage chair,” Doug replied on the other side of the box.

Nothing against Amazon but you’d think they’d send at least two men to deliver such a thing. Between me and the Amazon guy it took us fifteen minutes to get the massage chair inside. No breaks taken.

Inside this monster box, we quickly discovered the chair was in pieces. Required assembly. There was no way I was gonna let an eight-two year old man do this all on his own.

The instructions were straightforward enough. About an hour later it was ready for use.

The massage chair looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. Put an eight-two year old man in there vibrating so fast you can hardly see his face, you’d think it would de-age him.

Watching someone on a massage chair looses its appeal after twelve seconds. I nearly left but Doug insisted I give it a go.

While on the chair I amended the list of items that would go in my future-gymnasium style home: A bed, armoire, a set of chairs and a desk. All made of wood to match the floor.

Then, sitting of to the side, made of leather (maybe), meteorite (without a doubut), would be this massive massage chair. It would be vibrating non-stop as I would never want to get off it.

I sell my minimalist soul to the affiliate link embeded above somewhere.

The Oysters Attack? Doubt it!

Thursday at 3:30 a.m., my phone rang. Apparently, I’d forgotten to turn it off. Thought it was the alarm, but no—it was Doug.

“Get over,” he insisted, then hung up.

I nearly called him back with a “Fuck off, who are you to call me in the middle of the night?” but then remembered: Doug’s eighty-two. Something in his voice—panic mixed with acidity—alerted me that he was in desperate need.

I threw on my sweats, a torn pair of sneakers, and three minutes later stood at his front door. It was left slightly ajar. Through the crack, I called for him.

“In here,” he mumbled.

Never in all my visits had Doug’s house looked orderly. There was always some pile of crap here or a box that needed to be sifted through over there.

That night, I caught something from him—it seemed he’d invited an organizer over earlier in the day. I almost asked if he was selling the place, but once I found him hunched over the toilet, conversation was limited.

He wore a raincoat and was probably naked underneath, but I didn’t dare ask.

“They served these oysters at the opera and now I can’t get up,” Doug moaned.

He wouldn’t answer a thing about the opera—where it was, who he went with, how he got back, or why he was wearing such a fancy coat while hunched over the toilet.

“Tell me I’m gonna be alright,” was all he said to my inquiries.

I didn’t care to lie, so I said, “My hope? You’ll be fine.” Then I suggested a trip to the ER might be to his advantage.

“No, no,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Doug stood up, thanked me for coming, and escorted me out.

Here I am, a few days later, shuffling through my house like my knees had been glued shut. I want to cry but worry the aching that’ll come with any trembling. How I managed to compose this entry without reaching for a pain killer is beyond me.

If you dare to see the coat Doug wore, there’s an affiliate link in this post. Click it? Okay. Don’t click it? Also okay.

A Long Fierce Winter

This winter was brutal. Way too much snow for my liking. Not the kind of weather for birdwatching or counting blades of grass one by one.

It was a season for multiple mugs of hot cocoa or chai lattes. Since I’m not much of a Bible (or Torah, more appropriately) kind of guy, I finally took the plunge into Brandon Sanderson’s Stormlight Archive. I’m nearing the end of The Way of Kings and completely hypnotized by it.

Something about the book—and the cold—got me thinking of Doug. Was he warm? How was he getting his meals? Was the hike up the hill to the High Falls Food Co-op too slippery?

Then, finally, a break in the weather. Yesterday, I thawed out my feet, shoved them into boots, and walked to Doug’s. When he didn’t answer twenty seconds after my knock, I pounded harder. I nearly knocked the paint off the door.

The floorboards creaked—proof of life. He flung the door open and barked, “What?” like I’d come to sell him moldy Girl Scout cookies.

“You’re alive,” I said.

“Were you hoping I wasn’t?” he shot back, then waved me in.

We—well, I—attempted to hold a conversation. But something was blaring in the background. “Background” might not be the right word. My voice was in the background. The narrator of Lonesome Dove echoed through the entire house. No wonder Doug hadn’t heard me knocking.

Finding the audiobook’s source was a challenge, buried under his usual piles of junk. A whole chapter might have gone by before I spotted it. I pressed pause, but to Doug, I might as well have detonated a nuclear bomb.

“What are you doing?” he hollered. “I was listening to that.”

“I’m here, Doug. Thought we could chat.”

“I’m not in the mood to chat today,” he said. “Maybe tomorrow. Or next weekend. I should be finished with the book by then.”

The sky was overcast, and the thermometer read 62º, but I was shivering. My teeth clanked together, and for a second, I worried Doug had passed something contagious to me.

It turned out that it was just his grumpiness. Which, in turn, fueled a strong urge to destroy. Nearly ten overstuffed wheelbarrows of firewood later, I guess I’m ready for next winter. Ugh.

Doug Marlow

Yay! I made it through the pandemic.

Cleary, so did you.

Guess who else made it? Doug Marlow.

You probably have no idea who the hell that is. I didn’t either until last summer.

Doug is 82 years old, lives a mile down the road, and has his own personal billboard campaign.

Scattered across his yard were signs that read “My yard is bigger than my house! You believe that?”

One afternoon, I stopped by while he was pruning the weeds from his sidewalk. He was hunched over in torn denim shorts, wearing something aquamarine that looked like a cross between a bra and a parasol.

“Couldn’t help but notice your signs.” I said. “All hundred of them.”

Doug perked up like I was offering a moth collection worth six billion dollars.

“If your house was bigger than your yard, it would spill out on to the street,” I told him.

“God darn!” Doug whistled. “Cars would ram into it, wouldn’t they?”

“Sure would.”

He invited me in for some red velvet cheesecake, which he claimed to have made from scratch on his pristine marble countertop.

As we devoured two slices each, his TV tried (and failed) to broadcast some game show–mostly, it just fizzled out in static.

I know nothing about fixing TVs. So, I suggested he shoot a bullet through the screen and call it a day.

That got us both laughing.

And that’s how my friendship with Doug Marlow started.

Cheating On My Novel

I’m currently going through a mild version of writer’s block. “How,” you might ask, “are you going through writer’s block yet composing your first blog post in almost a year?” Reread the first sentence and you’ll see the word mild in there.

It’s only when working on the novel that this mild writer’s block shows up. I’m nearing the novel’s completion yet find myself staring at the blinking cursor. Everything’s been mapped out. I know exactly what comes next. The issue is the wording. I’m scared it’s total shit and that the novel’s future readers will get antsy. Bury the book out of embarrassment. “Can’t see what I’ve been reading these past few weeks. Nope haven’t been reading anything. Eric Sazer? Who the hell’s that?”

On the outset of writing this flash nonfiction essay I saw it serving two parts: as a procrastination tool and a place for me to vent. Watching these words form upon the page, I’m having a bit of fun. If my novel was my wife, this blog is my mistress. This blog and I rented an old Mercedes convertible and together we’re riding through the countryside on Memorial Day weekend. Back at home, the novel’s wiping away all the piss I accidentally dribbled on the bathroom floor.

I love you, novel, but fuck you. You’re driving me nuts. I’m gonna go wild with my blog. I’ll print pages of you out, novel, and use that to wipe my ass. Leave the shit-stained pages in the middle of the woods. Let the squirrels and mice nibble away at the bullshit words printed on the page.

Okay, now I feel like an asshole. What kind of future book salesman am I? One day, it’ll be available at a bookstore near you. On that day when your eyes land upon the spine, will you splurge and invite this novel into your life? Or will you envision the novel causing an epidemic in your home, where immediately upon purchasing it, every book on your shelf would suddenly turn into a massive pile of manure?

I hope that doesn’t happen. As a matter of fact, I will return the Mercedes convertible, kiss my mistress farewell and return home. I’ll lift the novel off the bathroom floor, bathe it. Make passionate love to the novel. Clean my own urine dribbles off the bathroom floor. Then on the day this novel is available for purchase, I’ll make sure it comes with a roll of paper towels, rubber gloves and organic house cleaner. Just in case.

Ya never know, right?