Page 8 of Love and Other Mental Health Concerns
“Yeah…okay, great.” This guy is so confusing, one moment he seems all happy-go-lucky, the next pouncing on Keith. I can’t help but wonder if that flip-flopping will also happen with how supportive he is of social services.
I rise from my chair, shaking the large and calloused hand of the only person I can remember ever standing up for me. I offer a nod to the dingus in the puka shells to my left, and I stroll out the door.
CHAPTER FIVE
Marcy
“Yeah, but you don’t trust anyone.” Stan reminds me, as I sit in a tall, wooden, booth across from him and Gary. We are at Harolds, the sandwich shop that these two have owned for the past 30 years. I am catching them up on my week, including my interactions with Nick, and Stan isn’t one to hold his tongue. Gary gives him the occasional side eye and pat on the arm to give me a break.
The shop is dimly lit, since closing about an hour ago. It’s enveloped in wood paneling that Gary and Stan keep meticulously dusted and polished, along with the coordinating wood floors. Not much has changed since they purchased the place shortly after they graduated college, and they managed to turn it into an impressive town staple. Delicious food, and sweet company.
Stan and Gary informally adopted me when I was thirteen years old, after what we now refer to as ‘Cookie Stealing Day.’ They had caught me stealing said item from the counter at Harolds and must have been able to tell I was in rough shape. They sat me down and asked what was going on in my life that made me think I needed to steal a two-dollar item; an act of compassion that changed my life trajectory and cultivated my interest in social work.
I explained to them that at I was living in a public housing, one bedroom flat with my mother, who struggled with alcohol addiction. Later, that would turn into a opiate addiction that ultimately caused her death. I never knew my father, and it wasn’t clear to me if my mother knew who he was either. As far back as I could remember, my mom was detached. I knew she was sad, and I knew that I couldn’t rely on her. The day I stole the cookie was a Sunday afternoon, and I hadn’t eaten anything since Saturday morning. Mom had been sleeping most of the weekend and it was impossible to wake her, not that she would have money to give me anyway. Our food stamps never lasted as long as we needed them to, and my mom couldn’t stay employed while she was busy drinking.
It was the first time I had told anyone about what was going on at home. That one conversation, sharing my truth, with those lovely men started to fortify a new awareness in me that not all adults were disappointing and adrift, and their subsequent involvement in my life taught me the meaning of love and trust; that it was even possible.
So, they are my dads, unofficial in the eyes of the law but official in how they show up for me. After that conversation, they made sure I was fed, clothed, always welcome in their home and at their shop. They gave me small jobs at the restaurant to stay busy, and they created a world outside of my mom that felt safe and allowed me to grow.
While my mom was distant and unpredictable, Stan and Gary were the epitome of warmth and stability. They met while attending college here in town and describe an instant connection, that has now carried them through nearly 40 years together. Stan is loud, and short, with rich brown hair and eyes that match. His parents were immigrants from Mexico, which he shares with pride to anyone who will listen. He is gregarious, and funny, and could converse with a lamp post if need be. Garyis a little bit taller than Stan, and about twenty decibels quieter. He is patient, warm, and thoughtful. He was raised by quiet, Swedish parents not far from North River. His hair turned gray long ago, which he loves to blame on Stan.
“All I’m saying,” Stan continues, “is that you are describing an accomplished man who fixes struggling hospitals for a living and is a good listener. Maybe he’s worth a little bit of your trust? Just to see if he can help you and help your patients.” He looks to Gary for some support, who returns it with a nod.
These two know my anxious thought processes almost as well as I do, offering a needed sounding board. More commonly known as a “reality check.”
“I know, I know. I’m trying. It’s just…he says his job is to help, but it’s also to fix finances. It’s hard to forget that part of the equation, even when he is listening, and encouraging me. At the end of the day, the ideas I offer may not make a difference if it doesn’t contribute to the bottom line.”
“I don’t know if I have ever heard you worry about a bottom line.” Gary comments. “And you have worried about everything.”
“Well considering I have no budget to work with, that would make sense. My social service bottom line sits on the floor, so there is very little to worry about typically.” I sip my lemonade and lean back against the cool wood of the booth. What am I going to do with a budget-less department?
“Well, what is he like personally, though?” Leave it to Stan. “I mean, does he seem like a generally nice person? Is he married?” Here we go. “An age range?”
Real subtle.
“He smiles a lot, maybe too much. It’s unnerving. He doesn’t have a ring on, so I am guessing he isn’t married.” He also kind of flirted with me, and then defended me like my honorwas on the line, but I leave those parts out. Stan would latch onto that information like a dog with a bone.
“Only you would meet a person and be skeptical that they smile too much.” Stan rolls his eyes, “but you noticed he didn’t have a ring? He must be good looking.”
There is no hiding behind the blush that comes to my face. I give up before Stan has a chance to become relentless. I once told him I thought a boy was cute, so he called that boys mom and scheduled a playdate. Did I mention I was seventeen?
“Okay, yes, they are calling him the Adonis around work. He’s tall, and broad, and has a beard, and he smells…good. Like really, annoyingly good. And he dresses well, so add that to the smiling and its almost too much. He might be an alien.” I sip my soda and reflect on the potential alien’s forearms.
“Smells good, huh?” You could see the smirk on Stan’s face from space. He’s loving this, they both are probably, but Gary is much better at keeping it cool. “How did you get close enough to smell him, Marcy?”
“We were in his office for the meeting, a confined space…please shut up!” I give a solid eye roll and start to giggle, as they do too. Laughing and spending time with my dads has given my ringed fingers a much-needed break from my nerves.
“You guys are too much; I have to go, drinks with Annie tonight.” I say as I stand to clear our plates. “Thank you for the chat.”
“Anytime sweetie, don’t let Stan scare you away with his nonsense.” Gary kisses me on the cheek. Always the calm and stable energy.
“Nonsense?” Stan glares at Gary before wrapping me in a tight hug.
“Yes, honey, nonsense. Let’s go lock up.”
We say our goodbyes and I head out the back door of the shop, making an immediate right and up the creaking stairs to my apartment.
Stan and Gary lived in this space when they first bought the building but moved out years ago, into a cozy bungalow a few blocks away. When I was eighteen, they started letting me stay here officially, although they had let me have the keys to the place when I turned seventeen. “Just in case” they would say, but not elaborate.
