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Hancho, Part Two

Hancho’s father never left. Sure, he’d hobble to the bodega every morning for a paper and egg sandwich. Occasionally, he would join a group of men for gambling and arguing over appropriate female attire. Mostly, he sat on the couch like a kind old lump.

Bella tuned the man out and focused exclusively on Hancho. Did he have any idea what a damper his father’s presence had on their budding relationship? These thoughts overwhelmed her, so she’d ponder work instead.

Other than taking lunch with her boss, Bella was quiet. She barely mingled with her co-workers. That is, until the company hired Daphne. She could’ve been Bella’s twin, except for her bright blue eyes.

Daphne was obsessed with frogs. She had frog mugs. Pins made of assorted materials that, when melded together, formed a frog. Daphne would stay late at the office, not because she had work, but because of this solar-powered frog figurine. If you click on the affiliate link, you’ll see a happy frog holding a book, either thinking or perhaps happily interrupted by a loved one. The book only illuminates in a dark setting.

Bella had yet to see the magic of this figurine.

“Can you stay late with me?” Daphne asked Bella. “I’d like to show you something.”

“I can head back to the house, eat with Hancho and his lovely mole of a father… then return after that.”

They nodded in agreement.

At 8:30 p.m., Bella and Daphne stood together, their elbows gliding against one another, staring at the frog figurine.

“It’s so lovely,” Daphne sighed.

Bella said nothing. This is exactly how she pictured Hancho someday. Wisened. Happy. Rested. Eager to interweave fantasy and reality. She fell to her knees as if that frog statue had become some religious icon, then sobbed.

Above is an affiliate link where I will get the most luscious nickels that will fall from the sky and into my pocket.

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.

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.