A Capable Man

We fall and we can't get up...

I was having dinner with my older son. Just me and him.

We went out to some hippy brew pub type place. It feels very Oregon. Something some hippies from Eugene would open on the coast. A place for dark beer and thick burgers.

I think all sons are somewhat afraid of their fathers. And my son isn’t different in this regard. But it’s just the two of us here. He doesn’t have his mom or brother to lean on, so he’s forced to engage with me.

As such, he tried an icebreaker to start the conversation.

He said, “Dad, if you could live anyplace in the world where would it be?”

I laughed.

I told him, Buddy I already made that choice. And I chose to be here. In this state, and in this town. And I never want to leave.

We live in a small city in the Mountain West. I’d peg the population at 80k or so. It reminded me of the place I grew up (in a neighboring mountain state), but it was somehow better. The people were nicer than where I was raised.

And this is where we settled. Been here almost a decade and a half.

I love this town.

Truly love it.

I love the people, and the climate, and the rumble of the freight trains moving through town at night. Even when they don’t blast the horn, on a quiet night you can hear the rumble of the wheels. Especially on summer nights, when after the evening thundershowers I open the windows to cool the house and it lets in the sounds of the trains.

———

Today I was on Main Street. I went to my usual coffee shop to write and ogle the Art Hoes. Then I ate a slice of pizza at the best pizza place west of the Mississippi. After lunch I went on a mission to find a Sony Sport Walkman and some cassettes.

I stopped at one of the many pawn shops. After browsing the guns (nothing interesting) I told the clerk I was looking for some ancient technology. I told them what it was and the store erupted in laughter.

They hadn’t seen a Walkman in years. Because 1) nobody listens to music on a Sony Walkman, and 2) they’re not worth enough to pawn. But they suggested I go to the new used record store down the street, as the owner also sells vintage stereo equipment.

So I took a stroll. Past taquerias and vape shops and more pawn shops. And past the barbershop that’s been there since 1800 something. it’s the oldest business in town. It still has the original barber chairs. In fact it still has brass spittoons—but nobody has used those for many decades. Perhaps since before the 2nd World War?

Every boy who grew up in this town has had his hair cut here—including my sons. I used to go in for haircuts. I like a tight/clean shorn head and these guys delivered.

But you didn’t get to pick your barber. There are 3 chairs and you have to wait your turn and who you get is the luck of the draw.

The old guy was excellent. He was in his 80s at the time. Loved to give shaves. Loved to chat. And he really liked to talk fishing—and i’m always happy to join in a conversation about angling.

It was his shop. Before that it was his dad’s. And his grandfather’s before that. They cut the men’s hair of this town for over a century.

But there were two other barbers. One was okay. Good barber but not much for conversation

Then there was the idiot. Just a bog-standard idiot barber. He gave the same haircut to everyone regardless of what they asked for. While waiting I’d see guy after guy get cut by the idiot and walk away with the wrong haircut. It happened to me a few times.

With 1 in 3 odds of getting a bad haircut, I decided to find a new barber. And I did—down the road in the Big City.

I found a tattooed bearded biker who might very well be the world’s best barber—and after seeing him every 3 weeks for the past decade I consider him to be a good friend. And so what if I burn a half tank of gas to get there and back.

Friends are worth a half tank of gas. And I don’t have many friends left.

Continuing down the street, as i neared the record shop, I noticed a pair of legs sticking out of a doorway. But I didn’t pay attention. It looked like one of the Hobos had passed out—or maybe he was just resting.

I call them Hobos, but I have a buddy who calls them Wizards. It’s apt, and it might become my new euphemism for the derelicts cast adrift on the streets of our town.

I was opening the door to the record store when a woman ran up to me.

She said, Sir can you help?

I followed her down the block to the legs sticking out of the doorway. The legs didn’t belong to a Wizard. They belonged to an elderly gentleman. He wore a short sleeve shirt and tie. His walker was tipped over and he was on the ground bleeding.

He was on his way to the cobbler, and had fallen right in front of the door. The people in the cobbler shop were trying to help him, but his body blocked the door from opening.

His arm was shredded. Flesh hanging off. I think he ripped it on the corner of the brick doorway on his way down.

He wanted to get up, and asked for help.

I said Sir, I think we need to call an ambulance.

I took a first aid class a long time ago. I remembered what I was taught about elder falls. Sometimes they go down and crack their hip—but it doesn’t break until the try to stand and put weight on it.

Then they go down again.

And that’s the last time they ever walk.

The gentleman wouldn’t allow it. Said he just needed to get to his feet and he’ll be fine. Said he just needed to get to the boot shop.

Who was I to argue? He was a man. A man’s man at that.

He was my elder, and since I was raised a certain way I complied.

Then, like men of his generation do, he started giving orders. He was an expert at getting off the ground and gave me step by step instructions.

First I rolled him on his back, then I helped him to a sitting position.

At this point the door to the cobbler shop was unblocked and two men came out to help. Which was perfect, because he said it was going to take 3 of us.

One of the new helper men didn’t speak English, but the lady who flagged me down was able to translate.

I put down my messenger bag and got behind the elder. He was a big guy. Gravity wasn’t his friend. This WAS going to take 3 of us.

I got behind him and put my arms under his armpits—just like I’d learned while caretaking for my grandfather—and my mother. I was there to arrest another fall—but I was worried about my back so I made sure to keep my spine straight. I’m still recovering from a car crash and tweaking my back is the last thing I need today.

The other men each took an arm while I squatted behind him.

The elder informed us that we’re going on 3. Not 1-2-3 go, but on 3. He was clear about that.

Yes Sir I said. We go on three.

The lady counted off uno, dos, and on tres we lifted.

He got to his feet and the helpful woman gave him his walker.

I offered to walk him to his car but he said, “No thank you sir, I need to get my boots from the boot shop.”

So I held the door while he walked into the boot shop to retrieve his boots.

This cobbler specializes in western boot repair. And he’s not the first bleeding limping old cowboy that’s walked through that door.

And he probably won’t be the last.

———

People come to me for help. There were other people on the street, but the woman came to me.

It’s a constant thing, and it’s always puzzled me.

Maybe I look kind. Maybe I look like a sucker.

People do this at work. My fellow crew members come to me with things that are out of my department or way above my pay grade. Or to solve problems that I have no idea how to solve.

My almost-business parter, a tough (but smoking hot) Long Island blonde I call The Fury, has noticed this.

She says, It’s because you’re capable.

Every time she says this I protest that, no—I’m not. I’m not capable.

It’s because I wear glasses. It’s because I’m a dad. And I look like a dad.

“No,” she says in her harsh Long Island accent “you’re capable.”

You can’t argue with a woman like The Fury. She’s a force of nature. You’re just not going to win that one.

Even tho I don’t argue, it doesn’t mean she’s right. It doesn’t mean there aren’t other reasons people come to me.

Then again, I don’t have a better explanation.

But I’m someone you can come to for help. A public man, with a place in the polis.

But I want to be private. I want to be the idiot. Like the terrible barber who you know everyone knows is worthless.

People don’t trouble him with their problems. He’s left alone—to craft the same haircut over and over again. To always square the neck, even when the customer wants it natural.

Must be nice.

———

In many ways, this town has improved in the years we’ve been here. When we arrived it was a solid working and middle class town.

But since our arrival people with email jobs have moved in. Some of them came from the coasts, but most of them were priced out of the neighboring wealthy community. They started buying up and refurbishing the old craftsmens and victorians. And built new mcmansions on the edge of town.

With their disposable income, they attracted shops and restaurants and even a Whole Foods.

And I like these things. I like good food. And I like to shop.

But I’ve also seen people in my community become downwardly mobile. And I’ve seen my neighborhood deteriorate.

Partly it’s the new Section 8 housing. The wealthier community have been exporting their poor to cities like ours. And our city doesn’t have the money or the will to fight it.

There’s also the influx of immigrants. There was a steady stream, but it turned into a flood during the Biden years. It’s taxed the hospital and the schools. The roads are dangerous (I was hit a few years ago) and the police are overwhelmed.

But it’s the renters that were hit the hardest. The rents here are astounding. Almost San Francisco prices now.

And the wages, especially for those not tied to the global managerial economy, have remained stagnant—suppressed by the abundance of cheap immigrant labor.

There used to be factories here. High tech stuff. But most of those jobs are gone now. What’s left are service job—servicing the people who got to work from home during Covid.

A lot of people in my neighborhood owned small businesses. At least they did before Spring of 2020. But most of those businesses went under. And now they work service jobs—or for the government—or they don’t work at all.

And then there’s the drugs.

When we moved from Los Angeles, I thought I’d seen the last of street level drug dealing.

Nope, not here I thought.

But I saw it here for the first time during Covid. Everything was closed, and I needed something for the kids to do. I thought model rocketry would be a fun (and outdoor) hobby for the boys.

We donned masks and I took them to the model shop. Stocked up on Estes Rockets and launchers and engines and model paint.

And when we were leaving, with my kids in tow, a man approached me in the parking lot. He took a balloon (or condom?) of heroin out of his mouth and held it up to show off the goods.

I told him to get the fuck away from my kids.

And he did. He complied.

But as I was pulling out of the parking lot I saw him exchange the balloon with another guy. A guy who didn’t look that different from me.

There’s a force at work here.

Some THING that’s eating this town.

Maybe it’s eating the world.

And the drugs and the loss of jobs and the new wealthy Whole Foods shoppers are only a tiny part of it.

As much as I’d like to blame The Libs or The Democrats or Big Business or Communism or the Illegals, I know it’s just a small piece of whatever this thing is.

I don’t think we know what this thing is yet. And I don’t think we really know what to call it. Maybe The Machine is a good term—because whatever The Thing is, it’s not human.

———

The other day I slept late. Kept hitting snooze on my phone.

But my wife had to leave for work early—so as soon as I woke up I found myself scrambling to get dressed and slam coffee and brush my teeth and dig my pistol out of the safe and find my car keys so I could take my kids to school.

And then the doorbell rang.

It usually doesn’t ring at 7 in the morning.

The dogs went fucking nuts. They knew something was wrong.

My son looked out the window and told me who it was.

It was his best friend—a 12 year old girl who lives down the block. She had her 4 year old brother with her.

I knew it had happened again.

Because they come to me for help. Because I’m capable, says The Fury.

I put the dogs in the kennel and opened the door.

The kids were scared. The girl told me her mom had a “fever” and was having a “seizure”. She asked if they could wait while the paramedics helped her mom.

And of course I let them in. I needed to take my kids to school, but I didn’t have a car seat for the 4 year old.

So my kids didn’t go to school.

Instead I made the kids french toast. And gave them orange juice. And all 4 kids enjoyed breakfast together. The 4 year old is hoot. He’s a funny kid. It’s been years since we had a 4 year old in the house.

But that’s not exactly true. The 4 year old was in our house a few months ago. When his dad had a “heart attack”.

He came with his sister late at night. Came running. I made them French Toast that time too.

That night I told the girl that she could come ANY time.

I said come here if there’s a problem. Any time of the day or night. I repeated myself—ANY TIME. I said is slowly. So she understood. And she did. She knew what I was really telling her.

I don’t think my son—her best friend—understood what I was saying. But she got it. Girls mature faster than boys.

I know she understood, because this time—when she found her mom overdosing in the shower—she came running to us.

She’s a cool kid. Says she wants to be rich. Listens to podcasts about business. Loves the All-In podcast. I’m not sure how much of she understands, but she knows that the key to getting out of this place. Of getting away from here. To escaping to a place where white kids have a future.

My wife came rushing home. I took the boys to school while my wife waited with the neighbor kids.

After a few hours a family member came to pick them up. My wife went back to work and I got in the shower.

I was shampooing my head—my freshly cut short hair—when I broke down crying. I collapsed on the shower floor and cried. I stayed there until the hot water tank was depleted and the shower ran cold.

There’s nothing I can do for these kids—nothing permanent anyway. The parents are good people. I consider them friends.

But there’s nothing I can do to make this better. That’s up to them.

And yeah, I know how addiction goes. There’s no rationality at work. You can’t talk someone into stopping. The substance is too powerful. Nothing—not even love of your own children is enough. Because they’ll talk themselves out of it. Say it’s going to be different this time. And do it again.

That’s how I was. But I came to. And I got out.

In The Program they say it was God that saved me. But I’m not so sure any more. Because I think about all my friends who didn’t make it—who didn’t get God’s Grace.

Why did I live when they didn’t?

Why did I make it out?

What makes me special?

I don’t like asking those questions, because I don’t like the answer.

Earlier this year a mom on the block drank herself to death. Her husband had left months prior—or maybe he had a restraining order (I’m not exactly sure). She lived with her young daughter who was maybe 4 years old. And she drank.

I guess one day her liver gave out or maybe her heart stopped or maybe she mixed some shit with the booze. Either way she died. In her house. And her little daughter was alone with her dead mother for 48 hours before the grandparents found her.

A few days later her father was at the house. He was cleaning out the empty vodka bottles and other trash. And he told me that the daughter, who I thought was no older than 5, was actually 8 years old. She was so neglected that she looked like a big toddler.

God’s Grace didn’t come for the mom. Maybe the girl has a shot now. She’s living with her grandparents.

The grandfather, the one cleaning out the vodka bottles from his dead daughters house, he’s a recovering alcoholic just like me.

He told me this.

In case you’re wondering, these are white people. They live in the United States of America in the year 2025. And this happened right down the street.

And I either didn’t notice or I willfully chose not to see. Like I chose not to see the legs of an old man sticking out from a doorway.

By the way, the mom of my son’s friend—the little girl who listens to the All-In podcast—is alive. The paramedics got to her in time. She’s out of the hospital and back at home now.

Narcan is a miracle. I’m going to the pharmacy tomorrow. Along with my monthly insulin pickup, I have some Narcan on order. I’ll keep it around just in case.

Hopefully they’ll give me an extra bottle that I can keep in my truck.

I’ll keep it for the next time someone comes to me for help.

I don’t know how capable I am, but sometimes I’m helpful.

I need to be helpful.

I don’t have a choice.