The Gift of Fire (14 page)
With my friend Wayne Dyer in Tampa, October 2008.
M
ANDY WAS THE VERY FIRST GIRL
I ever had a crush on, and to my young eyes, she was the most beautiful creature ever to have drawn breath. She sat directly across from me and had silky-smooth, shiny brown hair that cascaded across her shoulders and flowed halfway down her back. Her eyes were the deep, rich brown of darkened chestnuts; and I felt my stomach do little flips when she looked in my direction. For much of that year, I could only think and talk about Mandy.
By that time I had made friends with many of the kids at Terrytown Academy, was doing well academically, and held my own in any impromptu playground games of basketball or tag. I was a popular student, much more so than Mandy. Because she was also kind of shy, I guess I figured that would make me a shoo-in for her affection. I was sure I had a good shot at becoming her boyfriend, but I wanted to play my cards just right. So I kept my crush a secret until the perfect moment presented itself for me to reveal to her what was in my heart.
After Christmas, I was flipping through the family calendar on the kitchen wall when it hit me. The perfect moment for me to profess my love had already been determined: February 14.
With some friends’ encouragement, I designed a personal Valentine’s Day card for Mandy. As carefully as I could without hands, I drew pictures of flowers all over the yellow cardboard paper I’d selected for the special occasion. Then I wrote a little poem to go along with the drawing:
Roses are red / Violets are blue / But none of these pretty flowers are as beautiful as you!
On the morning of the special day, I made sure to be in class before anyone else so that I could slip the card discreetly to Mandy as soon as she sat down at her desk. I was so nervous and excited that I couldn’t look at her all morning. I figured she’d come up to me at recess to thank me for my gift, but when the bell rang, the object of my affection was up from her seat and out the classroom door without so much as a glance in my direction.
When I went outside, I spotted Mandy by the swing set she liked to hang out at with her friends. I saw that she was with a group of five or so girls, who were standing in a circle and passing my card around. Each time someone saw the card, a fresh peal of laughter would rise up above the playground.
I hung back out of sight until the bell rang and the girls went back to class. Once they were gone, I went over to the swings and found what was left of my Valentine’s Day offering lying in a hundred pieces in the mud. After her friends had taken turns laughing at it, Mandy had shredded my gift and stomped it into the ground.
Heartbroken, I went back to class and took my seat across from Mandy. I looked to her for some kind of explanation, but none ever came. That girl never so much as looked at me again, even though we sat near each other. Fortunately, she moved away the following year, but she left an indelible mark on my heart.
So by the time I reached high school, I was understandably uncomfortable around girls my own age and fearful of showing my feelings. Yet the young women in the gifted music class were so nice to me that I began to feel more at ease in their presence and ended up becoming friends with all of them. We studied hard together and learned a lot about musicality … but being the age I was, my mind was naturally not always on the music.
There was one girl in particular who caught my fancy. Fight it as I may, I couldn’t help but develop feelings for her. I didn’t know what the heck to do with those feelings, so I asked some of my buddies what they thought I should do. The consensus was, since it wasn’t too long until Valentine’s Day, I should buy flowers and a card and ask her to the school dance.
It was, as they say, déjà vu all over again. My pals’ advice hurled me back across time, through emotional distress, to the disastrous Valentine’s Day swing-set episode with Mandy. But even though that grade-school wooing attempt had been scratched into my heart as a complete and utter failure, I was willing to risk history repeating itself and hope for a better outcome.
After all,
I figured,
I’m older now, accomplished in my music, and somewhat settled in my once-troubled soul. I can do this! I
need
to do this!
I mulled over my options for a week, and then I made my move.
H
ER NAME WAS
H
ELEN, AND SHE WAS GORGEOUS
. She had shoulder-length red hair, a face that would make anyone gaze in awe, and skin so perfect that it shone like expensive silk. Like Mandy from the fourth grade, Helen sat directly across from me in our little classroom “closet.” But unlike Mandy, she wasn’t the least bit shy; and when Helen spoke to me, she always smiled in such a way that I was convinced she liked me as much as I liked her.
On Valentine’s Day I bought a big bouquet of red roses on my way to school. Once again, I made sure that I arrived in class before anyone else. I placed a card (store-bought this time) and the flowers down upon my intended’s chair, and then I waited for everyone else to arrive.
The other four girls and Mrs. Gillan filed into the room and, as each one passed by Helen’s chair, a little smile crossed their faces. They all knew that Helen didn’t have a steady beau, and they were excited that she’d received flowers from someone. I acted completely nonchalant, intending to keep my status as a secret admirer safely intact until Helen opened the card. There was a new sensation bubbling up from within me that I can only describe as part delight and part terror.
A few minutes later, Helen entered the room. She picked up the bouquet, pressed it to her face, inhaled deeply, and smiled with her entire being as she opened the card. She appeared a little shocked as her eyes darted across the words, but then she put the flowers down and came over and gave me a big hug. It was the closest I’d been to a girl physically in years, and I was a little befuddled by the contact.
I couldn’t judge the expression on Helen’s face, but as she pulled away I thought I noticed the glimmer of a tear in her eye. Something told me this wasn’t a tear of happiness, however; even though she thanked me again for the wonderful flowers, I had the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. Sure enough, for the rest of the class Helen was not her usual carefree self, and I felt a wave of discomfort creep over me. I couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps I’d made a blunder—on Valentine’s Day yet again!
After school, I dug up the nerve to call Helen to see what she had to say about “us.” The news was just as I’d feared: She only wanted to be friends. She liked me very much, but she didn’t feel “that way” about me and wasn’t interested in pursuing a romantic relationship. As I hung up the phone, I could feel myself sinking into a fitful depression. How was it possible that I could have forgotten the lesson Mandy had beaten into me so many years before? Had I learned nothing about the folly of pursuing a girl on Valentine’s Day? What the hell was I thinking?
I had the entire weekend to get my dejected spirit together again for Monday’s class. Thankfully, seeing Helen wasn’t as awkward as I’d imagined it would be. She was as sweet as pie to me, as if nothing uncomfortable had passed between us. I, however, needed a little time to fully regain my composure and recover from the humiliation I’d experienced. In fact, it took me several weeks to get my head together. But it could have been much worse if I hadn’t had all sorts of other inner turmoil to occupy myself with.
I mean, with all of the questions I was still wrangling with about the Catholic faith, the existence of God, the purpose of life itself, and the difficulties I had to overcome trying to establish myself as a professional musician, Helen’s rejection didn’t really overwhelm me in the end. But it did add to a lingering depression that would follow me throughout high school, especially where girls were concerned.
I was playing music all the time and thriving with the Rain Dogs, but a part of me felt like it was missing. I needed more than mere social interaction; I wanted a girlfriend. Unfortunately, I wouldn’t find a girl of my own until later on in my life. Patience has never been a strong suit of mine, but sometimes the universe teaches us that the more we hurry, the longer we end up having to wait for what we most want.
N
OT LONG AFTER MY SECOND EMOTIONAL
Valentine’s Day massacre, the gifted music program expanded into two classes. Helen was moved into the other class, but Cathy joined our small group. Thank goodness I’m a slow learner when it comes to women because, even though I kept striking out, I kept going up to bat to try again.
I developed a huge crush on Cathy, as I had with Helen—and just like Helen, Cathy told me that she just wanted to be friends. Fortunately, this time I was smart enough not to broach the question of going steady, or even going on a date, on another Valentine’s Day. I’d waited until the end of the school year to approach Cathy, which meant that when I was rejected, I didn’t have to sit beside her for the rest of the semester. I’d also have the entire summer vacation to privately lick my wounds.
I thrust my energies back into music again and told myself to forget about girls and focus on being the best drummer I could be. I was still messing around with pot and booze (being in the world of jazz and rock ’n’ roll, I was exposed to them both a lot), but I did my best not to fall too deeply into that hole. In fact, when it came to marijuana, I realized that I really didn’t need it to fit in. I’d honestly never liked it that much anyway, often smoking it just because everyone else around me was. I’d been using pot for quite a while by this point, but I now made the decision to knock it off completely and forever. Music would be my drug of choice, and nothing would ever match the high I got from practicing hard or playing well.
My relationship with my parents was still on shaky ground when it came to school, but it
was
slowly improving. I now look back and thank God that I had my music to lead me through whatever darkness I encountered. Catholicism wasn’t working for me anymore, and the large questions about life still rang incessantly in my mind. I continued to harbor a smoldering nugget of anger toward God that I’d been forced to grow up so different.
So many kids my age were concerned with looks and how they appeared, and I doubt they ever took a moment to place themselves in my shoes. I couldn’t blame them for the things they thought were important. Even if what they valued seemed petty and shallow to me, who was I to judge? I’m sure they had their own doubts and were struggling to live up to who they thought they should be, or who others expected them to be. It was normal, really.
At a certain age I realized that I’d never be the same as any of them, ever. That’s how I came to embrace a forward-moving life, using my music to pave the way. As I moved forward, I began to see that being burned had been a gift. If there really was a “road less traveled,” then my accident had put me on that road.
They say that when a student is ready, the teacher appears. Soon I was to be both student
and
teacher.
After graduating from high school, I enrolled in Southeastern Louisiana University (SLU). It was about 30 miles from home, which meant that I could commute. I’d learned to drive by this point, which had given me much more freedom. I was now able to get to gigs on my own and could cruise around and have quiet time to think when life became too hectic.
I’d also been asked by the director of bands at SLU to audition for a scholarship. He didn’t pass out such invitations often, but he did ask
me
to try out after visiting my high school near the end of my senior year.
The night before the audition, I was nervous. I was required to play a timpani piece; a snare-drum solo; and the marimba, which is similar to a xylophone. I’d never played the marimba before, so just prior to the audition I sight-read a short piece, figured out how to conquer the instrument, and nailed it at the performance.
A few weeks later, a letter arrived telling me that I’d been accepted and they were offering me a full scholarship! This was a great help since most of my income came from doing odd jobs at my dad’s office, the occasional paying gig, and giving drum lessons at a nearby music store.
I hadn’t been in a great frame of mind when I started giving these lessons. When I was onstage, I felt alive; away from my drums, I was still having trouble dealing with the hassles of everyday life, which would get my spirits down. But I’ve learned that to be a good teacher, you simply need to be open to the positive energy in the universe. In doing so, sometimes even the teacher becomes the student.
M
Y FRIEND
R
ANDY OWNED A MUSIC STORE
, and he asked if I’d like to get paid to teach some of his customers to play the drums. Needing the money, I figured,
What better job could there be than to teach people the thing I love most?
Things were going along fine, until one morning when Randy called up to say he had a very special student for me. He requested that I come down right away, so I raced down to the shop. On my way inside, I practically tripped over a guy in a wheelchair who’d positioned himself in the middle of the doorway. I remember being annoyed that he was in my way and I had to squeeze around him to get inside to my student.
