Beer Tubes at the Steak House
September 13th, 2009by David Breithaupt
COLS, OH-
At 11:30 each morning, John the stroke victim delivers the mail to our office. I hear him before he appears, hobbling down the hall like a peg-legged pirate, tilting, rhythmic, yet inching forward, accumulting feet and yards until at last he is in our office doorway.
Some people have coffee or smoke breaks, I have John. He is a mile post in my day. I know he will spend the next half hour struggling to tell me what he did yesterday or what he will do today. He lives in a realm of scaled down choices - lunch, movies or libraries. Everyday I tell him I might just leave and join him and everyday he shakes his head and grunts in acceptance, “come!”John’s mind is sharp. His delivery system to the outside world is fractured. He offers answers to questions with both a yes and a no which often slows our conversational progress. In moments of desperation he reverts to his pocket note pad. His wayward scrawls, resembling worm tracks across some rain moist mud, seldom provide any clues. Whatever he might be trying to convey, I’m always thinking in the back of my mind, did I take my baby aspirin this morning?
One morning John was trying to tell us a story it took my co-workers close to an hour to piece together, for all he could utter were the words “beer tubes” and “quaker.” This was an unlikely combo for any scenario. Our probes for more information were met with his halting yes-no yes-no’s which of course, got us nowhere. Finally, we edged the word “steak” out of him. Thank God there was someone down the hall who joined our deciphering ranks and knew of a restaurant south of us called the Quaker Steak House. And damned if they didn’t sell beer tubes to boot! Why John wanted to tell us about beer tubes bought from a steak house we will never know but at least we had a story line. We were satisfied with that.
I wish I had known John in his pre-stroke existence. Years ago, after his first wife died, he worked out his grief by walking the Appalachian trail and writing out his pain in dispatches for the local paper. Who does that anymore? Not many. It’s much easier to watch TV, feel sorry for yourself and drink whiskey (which hey, doesn’t sound that bad). John is a man of the world, a traveller, reader and writer, family man and sports fan. And of course, raconteur.
John forces me to ask the question, what if I had a stroke? Would I give up and veg? Would I fight? I’ve been in a few do or die situations in my life and I don’t know if I have it in me for anymore. I don’t know if any of us do until we come to that point on our map. It’s always a surprise.
I think there would be a cosmic disorder in my life if John were to suddenly disappear. I need to know he’s out there, inching along, performing his routine, not taking life’s bitch slaps sitting down. Like the armless kid I see down town everyday sitting by the Rife Center bobbing to his own inner beat rain or shiine or even the guy in my alley who combs through the trash for metallic scrap, they are out there, not giving up. Humming along.
And here I am having it so easy, numbed only by the predictable monotony of each day. But I should shut up and enjoy it while I can. Because as you know, tomorrow’s another day and who knows what hot mess that will bring? I always look forward to it.
Tags: fractured fairy tales, role models for our times, stroke victims
I don’t know about current Australian slang, but in the old days “a tube,” or “a frosty tube” was slang for a bottle/can of beer, as in “Let’s crack a few frosty tubes, mate.”
So maybe John was channeling Simon.
That’s interesting those Aussies have more ways to describe beer than the Eskimos do with snow. Beer tubes in the midwest are actually balloon-like tubes in which you can store a quantity of beer, they are especially popular at football games and as we all know, we always need more drunken sports fans.
Thanks for the piece, David. It reminded me of a little fellow who sat around my block all the time. Actually, I wrote out a bit on it and now, selfishly, want to post it on my own site, and maybe call for a few submissions about the fellow from the few people I know who knew him better. Bit of guilt about that, but oh well. The point is, damnit, that it got through to me and has illicited response. He shook his way into our hearts
Life is peppered with such people. Maybe when I am older I will be one of them. Thanks.
So maybe we’ve got more than one term to describe the amber. It’s all fair game, as getting on the piss is a national pastime. A slab of stubbies is a great way to spend a Saturday arvo, throw in some Maccas and some Acca Dacca and you’re sitting pretty. Of course, if a mate’s got a tinny you can bring down some longnecks and make a weekend out of it, then pull a sickie and hope the boss doesn’t cut sick and spit the dummy. Then again, you could just head down to the local boozer and hit the pots (which of course are called midis in South Australia - I’m not too keen on their confusing beer language over there).
“John’s mind is sharp. His delivery system to the outside world is fractured. ”
It’s a frightening thought. It really is.
Amber description is a worthwhile pursuit and the highest ambition of poetry. What better subject to transform into art, especially while you are drinking it? Kudos for your insight.
Agreed. My father had expressive aphasia, a result of invasive brain surgery to remove a tumor, where you know what you want to say but your brain can’t access your language properly. He’d get stuck on words, mid sentence like, “thomas, can you help me with my, damn, uh. you know, long strings, on my shoes…” And I’d have to help him with ’shoelaces.’
I think I would go nuts with that kind of frustration. I’d still try to communicate somehow I suppose. Not communicating would be equally frustrating.
David,
This story really touched me. My brother had a stroke when he was only 50 but he is doing much better than John. Still. Life is much harder. (and, selfishly, it is WAY too close to home.)
I have always had aphasia. My whole family gets into guessing games about what I really mean. Given enough time, I come up with the word but usually long after it is needed. It is very frustrating. One kind of funny twist mine takes is that my brain makes nonsensical word substitutions. A typical thing I would say to the kids at night is:
“Okay, kids, go upstairs and put on your bathing suits, it’s bedtime.”
Luckily, I’ve been doing it so long that everyone can testify that I’m not actually demented, so hopefully I won’t end up in a home.
Good for John.
You should really go out with him.
(And thanks for explaining what a beer tube is in the comments.)
I think today would be a good day to run off with John. I don’t think I’m in the mood to go to work! Thanks Irene, I loved your little story about bedtime bathing suits. Wow, maybe I have aphasia too, just didn’t know what to call it all these years.
I tried to include a picture of John in my post but had technical difficulties, I’ll try to stickit in later.
There should be more ‘Johns’ in the world… You’re absolutely right that no one responds to tragedy by running into the woods and writing.
I hope I can still write after my next tragedy, not that I’m planing on having one.But I hope my spirit survives it if I do, thanks.
I’m sure it will. Tragedies, like everything else, inform art. They’re just fodder for the next book. Get a good one and you might make Oprah’s Book Club…
“…until we come to that point on our map.” DFW shining through.
Great little reflection on a stroke and late-life realities. Of all the possible ways to bow out, my mom says that having a stroke is the least desirable of them all. I would say that she’s actually paranoid that she’s going to have one. I don’t doubt it, though I think that any of them that incapacitate the person to the point of slowing down their daily existence from between 1/10th or 1/100th the speed, well, that is a pretty shittily drawn out map. And, of course, it beckons the cliche that enjoying the early part of the map as much as possible is very important.
And speaking of strokes, I tend to borrow Garrison Keillor’s “Be well and do good work” from the Writer’s Almanac in order to sign off, but he, too, just had a stroke last week. So I’ll reserve that for another time in the hopes that he recovers smoothly and is still able to.
I think anneurisms, or however you spell them, run in my family. usually they came fast and fairly painlessly (I think). I wouldn’t mind a quick exit like that. I’m not fond of lingering!
Thanks for your thoughts.
You’ve got to admire the fact that he’s still- in spite of incredible difficulties- trying to get the words out.
My grandfather had a fairly mild stroke several years ago and, even for him, it’s frustrating not being able to reach the words he needs.
After I had the accident that nearly crippled me, or worse, I was in the rehabilitation wing of the hospital for a number of weeks, and every day I received therapy in the same room as a stroke victim in his mid-thirties or so. He struggled to learn, or relearn, the simplest things, and I remember well the look on his face when, one day, he had a small success; his eyes brimming with tears.
I hadn’t thought about that in a long time. I thank you for jogging my memory, David. I think I needed to read this piece.
Thanks Duke, and damn, I am on the verge of mailing that Kerouac tape! Hang tight. I appreciate your thoughts.