This is a true story, the first of three essays/blog posts on re-found friendships.
The name of the titular character has been changed for anonymity.
Tales of Brave Ulysses – The Re-Emergence of Clark Stuart
by Peter Spellos
Chapter
1 – I’m So Glad
Stunning. The view from the car, driving up the Taconic State
Parkway was lush and familiar. I had traveled 2,500 miles from Los Angeles over
two months ago just to get back home. My Mom, now 91, was not getting any
younger and needed both her sons by her to help. So, coming off a 4+ years
prescription drug dependency which I gratefully left on the road in Arizona thanks
to a great doctor and 30 days as an outpatient, I finally arrived home. New
York. Not The City, where I was born, but White Plains in Westchester County, where
I spent my Wonder Years living with my folks and baby (now 53 at this writing)
brother in New Rochelle. We moved there from Washington Heights, NYC in 1966.
Not soon after my arrival to the suburbs, I made the acquaintance of three
kids, Paul Riemer, Lance Miller and Clark Stuart. Those three had been great friends
throughout elementary school, growing up in the same neighborhood. Soon, casual
chats during school hours became strong friendships after, as these three
“boys” made my transition to a new house and home (we lived in an apartment til
then) and brand new environment. My transition, though, was not often easy. Some
pre-teens can be cruel to the new kid in a new school. Hell, my parents made me
wear a sport coat and tie my first month of 7th grade. They might as
well have stuck a bullseye on my back or even a “kick me” sign.
Not these three, no way they were ever less than best
buddies from the start. We were comrades with common likes; Baseball, bikes,
and babes. (hormones had begun to kick in) We played sports together, listened
to rock & roll, and we ate like fiends whenever we were at each other’s
parents homes. If it was summer, it was softball at Davis School (their
elementary stomping ground). Autumn? Tackle football, same venue. Winter was
filled with snow ball fights, Swiss Miss and sledding. Sometimes it was
sneaking on Wykagyl Country Club to ride down the hills of their frozen fairways.
Most days, it was sledding down my parents sloped driveway, my first and only
dog, Caesar the Beagle, baying away at the kitchen door. On one chilly occasion, Lance nearly achieved
escape velocity and sped down the properties’ final drop-off that led to the
traffic-laden Quaker Ridge Road. We had to tackle him off the sled before
calamity ensued. The deep snow dampened our clothes but not our spirits. We
laughed like there was no tomorrow. Except, we had no idea that tomorrow, a
darkened one, would come calling for one of us, much sooner than we burgeoning
teens could really understand.
Sitting in the passenger seat, I marveled at the beauty of
my home state. Doing the driving was Paul, and we were headed up to a small
village, about a 35 minute trip from my digs in White Plains. We spent much
time together as kids riding our bikes and talking beisbol. Now, we’re riding
in cars but still talking about the National Pastime. “Hey buddy, see that
cemetery over there”, Paulie cheerfully instructed, “THAT is where Babe Ruth is
buried! In fact, when the Yankees are in the playoffs, the gravesite is overrun
with flowers and pictures. Wild, right?” Blissfully, some things (and best
friends) never change. Fact is, everything now is different yet everything is
the same. Paul stayed in Westchester, a successful small business owner, has a
great wife and two terrific kids. Me? After a brief but storybook marriage, quite
a tale for another time, I moved out to Southern California in 1989 to have my
career as an actor in TV and Film, where I was a success, as much as a career coach
and teacher as the actor/comedian/denture wearer I promised myself I would
become.
What was a constant was the deep friendship Paul and I had,
and still have, even though we went many years apart. That also includes Lance,
who was meeting us in said village for dinner. Lance, the youngest of us by
mere months, was now a grandfather, (I love teasing him about this) and was
about to become the same for a second time. We weren’t sure if he could meet
us, what with grandchild #2 due any day, any minute. Paul reminded him this
wasn’t going to be just any dinner.
Lanny knew this, and we knew he’d be there. Truth is, Gramps (we’re all only 58 yrs.old) got up there before we
did. We were all excited yet filled with trepidation about tonight’s dinner. This
would not be just any mealtime with friends. We were about to have dinner with
Clark Stuart, whom we hadn’t seen or heard from in over 40 years.
Beauty continued to be my eye’s beholder along the parkway,
all bathed in dusks’ diffused sunlight. Each was being taken in with new eyes;
First, the Kensico Dam, then a shimmering reservoir, followed by a Little
League Field of Dreams, even the Valhalla Train Station and Restaurant, where
the waiters once wore a Conductor’s costume and punched out your dinner orders
on a menu resembling a old time train ticket. These were living visions of my
past, now clearly into view in my present. Is it 1969 or 2012? My gray beard,
reflected in the car window, whispered back my answer.
As we drove along lush, tree-lined route, what lacked in
cell service was certainly made up by the continued beauty of the town’s main
strip. Quaint old buildings, a deco-ish diner, the scent of fresh cut grass
wafting from the front lawn of a high school, Norman Rockwell would love it
here. As we approached the place that Clark has resided at the last 13 years,
Norman Rockwell turned quickly into Norman Bates. What lay before us, was a way past its’ prime Motor Lodge. I am
sure Mr. Bates passed on this property before investing in his motel on the
hill, for himself and dear old mom. Truth is, this seemed to be more like a
run-down, decaying, dirty looking dormitory at best, tucked in a small ravine
off the main drag. What it really is today, is a group home for the mentally
ill run (down) by the State of New York. You see, Clark Stuart is a
schizophrenic, a disease he has suffered from since he disappeared from our
lives over four decades ago.
The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines schizophrenia as: a psychotic disorder
characterized by loss of contact with the environment, by noticeable
deterioration in the level of functioning in everyday life, and by
disintegration of personality expressed as disorder of feeling, thought (as in
delusions), perception (as in hallucinations), and behavior. Now, this does
NOT describe the childhood friend we all knew. Clark was a joyous, athletic kid,
with a mop of curly blondish hair. Girls found him cute, guys knew he was cool.
He played the drums and loved music. The first time I ever heard Eric Clapton
was in his room at his parents’ home. With Disraeli
Gears blasting on the turntable, we talked hours about The British
Invasion, The Beatles vs. The Dave Clark 5 and what ever else was in 16 Magazine! (gimme a break, I was 14
years old). Cream was my new favorite
band. I finally got to see them live at Madison Square Garden just a few years
back on their “seniors’ tour.” I went with my brother and told him the first
song would be I’m So Glad. He asked
why and I confidently said because we’re all so damn glad that we made it this
far. I was sure Clapton, Jack Bruce and Ginger Baker agreed. Clark loved Cream like I did, and being a drummer, he really dug the still
amazing Ginger Baker. I thought about Clark a lot that evening. By the way, the
song that opened their show at MSG that night? I’m So Glad…
As we pulled into the parking lot leading
up to the front of the facility, all I could think of was Ken Kesey’s, “One
Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” This place was run down at best, at least from
the outside. As we exited the car, about 100 feet or so from the front door,
there were people hanging around outside, sort of like kids outside a college
dorm on a summer’s night. Some residents of the group home were sitting on the
ground, smoking cigarettes. Others seemed paired off in conversation, a little
too loud to be pleasant. Another, a man in worn t-shirt and sweat pants, walked
around in circles talking to himself, then waved at us and said hi. If Chief
Bromden walks out here and says to me, “Juicy Fruit.” I’m getting back in the damn
car.
We took a collective deep breath and
wondered if Clark was inside. Just then, emerging from a small group standing
around near the front of the building, one person stood out. He looked old,
older than us at 58, but he was dressed better than his parking lot compatriots.
His hair was completely gray and crew cut short. He wore a collared polo shirt,
dark slacks and a brown corduroy sport jacket. He was thin but not sickly.
Shoulders hunched, he smiled, albeit it warily, at the three men approaching.
Paul tentatively called out, “Clark?” His smile now looked familiar, his voice
almost the same. “Hey, Buddy!” It was Clark Stuart.
We had found our friend after 40 years. Decades
of wondering, hoping, never forgetting. Our friend we once thought dead, was
standing still before us. A brief moment of awkward silence melted into a near
group hug, strangers in a friend’s arms. I watched as Paul and Lance talked
with our long lost pal. I stood still, not believing where I was, who I was
seeing in front of me, or even what year it was. Time, it seemed, had decided
to also stand still.
It had been talked about that we’d take
Clark to a local Chinese restaurant. His father told us he brings him there when
he comes up to visit and Clark likes the food there. That’s all we needed to
know. Avanti! Since Paul and I drove up together, Clark got to go with Lance.
We drove around for nearly 20 minutes looking for this place, vehicular
wandering from one shopping mall to the next, much like teenage boys driving
around looking for something to do on a Friday night. We finally spotted our
intended culinary destination, right next to the nail salon and video game
store. Do they even still call them video games? Bueller? Anyone? Don’t ask me,
I last played a video game on Mattel’s Intellivision system. If you don’t know
what that is, either you’re very young or I’m…aging very gracefully.
As the bright evening sun set almost in
our eyes, Clark and I entered first. The restaurant vestibule was dark. Now, if
you’ve ever gone from light to dark quickly, you are almost blinded for second,
like a million sun spots blinking like stars. Clark stopped dead in his tracks.
It was the first time his walking seemed unsteady. I firmly took his arm and
said, “You’re with me, Clarkie, if you go down I go down, at that’ll be a mess
no one wants to clean up.” He laughed. I recognized that laugh. It hadn’t
changed at all.
It was almost 6:30 on this particular
Tuesday evening. We had the place mostly to ourselves. Sitting at a corner
table, the waitress came over to take our drink order. We wondered should we
order some beer or wine in celebration, but knowing Clark was on meds, soft
drinks were the order of the day. Not that we wouldn’t have a cocktail in front
of him, it just felt still a little strange. I think we all were, I wouldn’t
say on edge, but more like a first date, pleasant but tentative. How should we
act, or react, what should we say or tell him about our lives? Past successes,
friends and parents who had passed on. A myriad of experiences; marriage,
divorce, children and now grandchildren, places we had traveled, the world that
we lived in each day Our 40th high school reunion was three months
away, but the Stuarts, Clark’s parents asked us not to say anything about it to
Clark. They just didn’t want him to get hurt or feel sad. There is no way he
could ever attend such an event, it would be too overwhelming, at least now.
His elderly parents were still making sure they protected their only son. I
love them dearly for that.
It was clear when the soda’s arrived that
Clark has mild trouble with some motor skills. His hands shake, most likely
from who knows how many varied and different meds he’s received over the years,
not to mention the shock treatments he received early on in his fight with
schizophrenia. I really don’t have a clue, but our friend couldn’t raise the
glass to his mouth. He needed and asked for a straw. Paul opened it, placed it
in Clark’s glass and we toasted ourselves, four friends who were now one again.
Incidentally, it was straws for all.
Paul served Clark some of the chicken lo
mein, then we all dug in to the trio of dishes and egg rolls and we all began
to relax and for the next hour or so played remember
when?. Talk about a memory, it was clear Clark’s recollection of our past
together was spot on, except for specific time frames. I’m certain part of that
mechanism was shocked out of him a long time ago. Think about how the years in your life have melted together after
decades. Now, multiply that by 40 years of medication. His memory, though, about
the small things, was uncanny. He remembered his H.S hockey coach by name. So
many folks, when we mentioned their names, Clark recalled with joy and wished
them well. In between bites, and he was digging on that Chinese food, asked
about are families by name. He asked about Lance’s siblings and how he cared
about them. Both Paul and I were stunned when Clark asked about my brother and
Paul’s grandmother by their family nicknames.
Clark knows about his illness. He looked at me after a particularly
noodle-filled bite, and calmly confided, “I know I’m sick, Buddy, but this new
medication really helps. I’m doing much better than before.” Our Buddy isn’t
“sick”, he is amazing. More than anything, he seemed filled with love, even
gratitude. Throughout the meal, he kept repeating to each of us, how much he
loved each one of us, and how he never, ever forgot us.
Why did it take us 40 years to find him?
Could we have done more, done something different? No, life unfolds the way it
unfolds. Still, we never forgot him. Our friend was always in our hearts. When
Paul, Lance and I saw each other a few years back, we talked about Clark. How
someday, if he was still around, we’d find him again. During tonight’s dinner,
he kept asking us, nearly telling us we could all do this again in two weeks.
We knew that answer even before we spoke it. Be it every couple of weeks or so,
individual family matters notwithstanding, we would take our friend out to
dinner. He would never be alone in the world. Period. And all that time before
tonight, from his high school disappearance to this evening’s transformational
re-emergence, it was Clark who “never, ever forgot us.” I sat looking at him as he ate the rest of
his meal heartily. I was humbled by his
courage and his humanity.
I didn’t feel sorry for him. I felt sorry
for me.
