Norm the Sorcerer

Don’t mess with old people. They didn’t get there by being stupid.

I think that’s how that goes.

I have a 90 year old friend whose hearing is shot but mind is intact. The eyes are the closest organ to the brain and by that measure he’s as vigilant as a cat in front of a mouse hole.

Mid-conversation he locks eyes with me, “Oh, by the way, I read your book.”

I bowed my head and mumbled, “Oh no.”

My first book, Flip, is about a kid who witnesses a kidnapping, freezes with fear and doesn’t say anything. The kidnapped kid’s picture ends up being on a milk carton for missing kids (circa 1980’s) confirming the worst. The protagonist shouldered this burden for his entire life. It’s also a coming of age journey with, let’s say, adult themes.

That’s why I broke eye contact with my older buddy. He knows about that sex club scene where I got groped.

Instead, “Y’know, Norm. I lost two friends about the same age you saw that kid get kidnapped.”

His eyes started turning red.

“The first friend I lost was running ahead of me one day and he got hit by a car. I ran over and he had blood coming out his eyes, mouth. And ears. Yeah. Ears.”

I did math. That was about 80 years ago. 1945-ish.

He was seeing it. Past and present converging in the back of his eyes.

“Then on another day, I lost a kite and it got stuck in a tree…”

He lost two friends.

I tried to make my body as still as possible. “So, Norm, I kinda get what you shouldered.” This 90 year old man is telling me something he’s been carrying longer than any of you have lived. The book I wrote in isolation to heal myself created this moment for him to connect with me.

I heard writing in antiquity was akin to being a sorcerer in some cultures. Not everyone could read, let alone write. So an author “casted spells” by spelling and putting words together. A form of magic. And when read, these sounds generated by the person interpreting these symbols have an influence on people’s minds.

The magic I created was this moment.

I told this story, as I’m telling it to you, to the friend I dedicated Flip to. My friend, Gerardo, responded, “Wow. Who knows how long he’s been wanting to tell someone who can understand? He may have told people, but you may have been the first to get it.”

I’m humbled. That’s why I wrote this book. A moment I didn’t anticipate that helped someone feel understood. Did I tell you he’s 90?

Gerardo has also been caught off guard with, “How do you feel about a book being dedicated to you?” He never thought about it. This is what he and I do for each other.

Almost every time I speak with him he points out the profound, “Isn’t this what life’s about?” A simple question that often doesn’t get its due attention.

When I forget to pray, meditate or journal, my conversations with him qualify as stopping the clock and savoring another soul.

My 90 year old friend ended with, “I, later, moved to a rural wooded area. I spent hours, even afternoons in the forest. Walking. Just being…it took a long time, but I was able to return. I could see why it was hard for you.”

Gerardo shared my book with his friend to share the joy and accomplishment and spark further conversation.

After reading the dedication his friend said, “Are you guys gay?”