Unrequited (and self-centered) Love....

A week ago today I found out, via teh interwebs here, that the very first love of my life died over a year ago in a small town in Central Illinois.  He was 59.  And he lived with a longtime (female) companion.  It must've been quick because he died in an Emergency Room.  Thank God for little mercies.

I met "X" in the Navy.  I was 21 or 22 at the time.  He was 19 or so.  He was big (a bodybuilder) and typical of the sort of corn-fed, All-American, boys from the mid-West we had running around in the services in those days.  It was 1969 or 1970.

I had never in my life, up until then, felt those sorts of feelings about another human being.  In fact, I was pretty sure by that age that I was incapable of feeling feelings like those.  I was convinced that, due to growing up in the emotionally traumatic situation I'd grown up in, I was too shut down to feel anything for anybody -- including myself.

For nearly a year I wanted to be near "X" all the time.  But I knew I had to be careful.  I couldn't let the Navy find out about it.  I couldn't even tell "X" how I felt about him.

Of course, I was deluded.  He did know how I felt about him.  So did the rest of the little tribe of intellectuals we hung out with.  I remember one Friday night, all of us getting bombed in my barracks room, and them staging a "fake wedding" for "X" and I.

So, yeah, he (and they) knew.  One other thing was playing under the surface of all this, though.  "X" hated the military and was willing to do, and say, anything to get out of it so he could go back home to west Central Illinois, to his mom and girlfriend, and have nothing more to do with the Navy.  I had another goal.  And that was to stick it out long enough to get honorably discharged so I could collect the GI bill and go to college.

When I saw his obituary on my computer screen last week, I realized that I still had feelings for him.  Strong ones.  But there was another feeling there, too.  A feeling of betrayal because it dawned on me that "X" had studied me closely during our time in the service together.  He made my feelings for him the grist for his eventual, dishonorable, discharge from the Navy.  For the whole time I knew him, he was seeing a shrink in Washington, D.C. who was building a case for "X" to be discharged as a homosexual.

For 40 years I was emotionally invested in something that could, and would, never be.  Worse, I was emotionally invested in someone who, like the people who raised me, betrayed my love by being incapable of returning it.

He didn't do this to me.  I did this to me.  I know that now.  I have re-enacted my childhood pain by carrying torches for the most unavailable people (men) I could find.  If someone actually wanted me... I'd leave skid marks trying to escape.  If someone was aloof and remote... they were perfect.  I could pine away on the inside... alone in my solitary splendor, rather than building a life with some nice guy who really cared about me.

How stupid am I?

Oh, and RIP "X".  My heart still flutters a little when I think of you.  A very little.

Taps

We buried my father last Thursday in a Veteran's Cemetary in Delaware.

It's the hardest thing I've experienced while sober. My mother died while I was still drinking and I was pretty drunk through the whole thing.

This was different.

There was a brief service at the funeral home from 9:00 until 10:00 a.m. Dad's cremated remains were in a box on a table to the right and, on the left, was a table full of memorabilia about my dad -- much of it from his Navy days during WWII in the South Pacific where he was a gun captain aboard a refueling ship -- the kind of ship the Kamikaze's loved to aim for because they made such nice booms. Dad would only say of his wartime experience that he and his crew had "shot down a couple of Japs."

I was detached and calm through that whole part of the morning. At 10:00 we struck out for the cemetary and were there in about 20 minutes.

As we disembarked in front of the reception building a single bell started to toll. A Navy man, in dress whites, stood in front of the building holding a wooden case containing the folded up Old Glory. As we entered the building, across the quarterdeck, an honor guard, all in dress uniforms, stood on both sides and rendered us a salute.

We turned the corner into the chapel, the back wall of which was solid glass, two stories high. Outside we could see the rifle squad marching out to a mound, followed by the bugler.

My siblings and I, with my step-mother between my brother and sister, sat in the front pew... the rest of the family and friends filling in behind.

The minister made some remarks about dad being called "by the Supreme Commander in the sky" and I just dissolved. It started with a noise I had never heard myself make before -- followed by a flood of mucous and tears and sobbing and more weird noises. I reached around under the pew, looking for a box of tissues, but they only had this wimpy little kimwipe type things that wouldn't hold an ounce of water. I looked down the pew and my sister and brother had also both lost it. We were all bawling our eyes out.

Then came the kick in the gut. After the rifle squad had fired their salute and the bugler had played taps and the flag had been re-folded into the familiar triangular shape, the Navy Captain ( an O-6 ), took the flag as shown above and knelt on one knee in front of my stepmom.

"On behalf of the President of the United States, the Secretary of the Navy ... and a grateful nation..."

WHAM! It hit me. I was feeling feelings I didn't know I could feel. I knew that I loved my dad and had always loved my dad even when I resented him and that I would miss him.

And deep down inside I knew that I had made a good decision 42 years ago, when I decided to enlist in the Navy.

As had my father. As had his father.

I am my father's son.

And at heart, we are all deep-water sailors.

Off-Line

Tomorrow I'm having my prostate removed by a robot. Okay, it's got help in the form of a surgeon, Dr. David Samadi at Mount Sinai Hospital here in New York City.

I have to be there at 10:00 a.m. Surgery is scheduled for noon. I expect to be discharged on Thursday. I'll be living with friends in Queens for about a week, until they remove the catheter. Then I can go home to New Jersey. I'll be out of the office for anywhere from 3 to 6 weeks.

I'll post when I can over the next week, but I doubt if it'll be regularly.

If anybody out there is the praying sort, I'd appreciate it if you'd shoot a prayer towards whatever Higher Power you believe in to smile favorably in my direction over the next couple of weeks.

Take care and hug somebody you love and tell them that you love them. Don't put it off. Do it right now.

Parental Love

I drove down to Dover, Delaware on Saturday to spend some "quality time" with my father and step-mom.

All families are complicated, each in their own unique and often horrifying way. Mine is no exception.

My birth mom and my dad were divorced while I was still gestating in the womb. Throughout my childhood my mother, a bitter young woman with a severe drinking problem, used me as a pawn in her relations with her ex husband, her mother and anyone else who got in her way. I know that, and I forgive her for that. It ruined me in many ways, but there's no going back and undoing it. I am nearly incapable of having trusting intimate relations with sexually desirable people as a direct result of that childhood. When push comes to shove, I can't let anyone in... and more importantly, I can't let myself out.

But still, I try.

Eventually I did meet my shadow family consisting of my dad, my stepmom whom I love dearly and my should-have-been siblings, my sister and our younger brother. Over the years we have gotten closer and more loving.

As my sobriety has ripened, I have learned more and more about the important things in life, such as family and friends.

Dad has started having more and more hospital episodes over the last couple of years. This year my siblings had to fly down to Ft. Myers in Florida to literally rescue the folks and drive them home because dad was physically incapable of doing it.

Mom is no help. She never bothered to get a driver's license and, recently, her memory has started to go. She really needs to be watched at all times now. This will only get worse. In fact, both of them are only going to get worse, and to be honest, it will be in very short order.

After they came home from Florida my sister suggested that each of us go to Dover to spend some quality time with them. I knew what that meant. It meant my sister suspects that the end is near for one or both of them and now would be a good time to show them that they are still loved and that they are still a relevant part of their children's lives. I know, from personal childhood experience, what it means to feel like a fifth wheel in life.

I prayed all week about it. I asked God to take charge of the visit on Saturday and to help me keep my mouth zippered shut, to smile, to be loving and considerate and compassionate, to not have any agendas, and to be of service however I could.

Well, God held up His end of the bargain. I sailed through the day, even though were trying times at the drug store and supermarket. I showered them with affection, verbally and physically, whenever the opportunity arose.

Maybe I am learning about letting people in a little bit. Or even better, maybe I'm learning how to let myself out.

I dunno.

But I do know that I'm going to cry like a baby if... when anything happens to either of them.

Eleven Years

Yesterday was my 11th sobriety anniversary. In fact, it was exactly Sunday, March 8, 1998 that (so far) I had my last drink of alcohol.

In fact, that last drink was AFTER I'd gotten out of jail that morning. Yes. Jail. On a drunk-driving charge from Saturday night. I awoke that Sunday morning in a cell, my clothes piled neatly on the floor ourside of my cell... safely out of reach (lest I do something stupid, like fashion a noose from my trousers). It took most of the last $220 I had in my wallet to get out of jail that morning. I still had part of a 1.75 liter bottle of rotgut vodka back in my small room at my brother's house, where I'd spent the previous 3 months sleeping on a paper-thin mattress on the attic floor. I polished it off before I passed out for the last time. I hated myself and wished I were dead.

Two days later I attended my first 12-Step meeting, at 7:00 a.m. on Tuesday morning, March 10, 1998.

After that there were court dates, a loss of license for 6 months, fines, insurance surcharges, court-mandated attendance at something called IDRC (Intoxicated Driver Resource Center) and, finally, court-ordered attendance at 12-Step meetings for the next year.

By the time the court got around to that, though, I'd already been attending meetings for 3 months. In fact, I'd gotten my 90-Day pin the day before my first court appearance.

11 years later... during which there've been no police, no courts, no insurance surcharges and, most importantly of all, no court-mandated attendance at 12-Step meetings (I run to them of my own volition these days).

I've come to realize a lot of things in those 11 years. I've come to realize that there is a God and that I'm not him (or her). I've also come to believe that there is a plan, which is not my plan and that God, frankly, doesn't give a rat's ass about my opinions regarding that plan, but that my job is to show up for that plan and to do my best to implement that plan. It makes life so much easier when we stop trying to be God... and get rid of that massive chip on our shoulders because we are not God.

I have loving friends and family. For a long time I didn't. I like being around people today. For a long time I didn't.

I go to a Step meeting on Sunday mornings in the sleepy little town of Plainsboro, NJ (home of the non-existent Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital where House practices being a medical jerk). My sponsor goes to the meeting with me. It allows us to have some valuable "face-time" every week. He gave me my 11 year piece at the meeting yesterday.

I love my sponsor. He's my best friend. He puts up with a lot of crap and neediness from me. He thinks I'm a good friend, too. He's told me so. We're good for each other. He and his wife have taken good care of me over the years. They've been there for me with all my medical crap over the years. I would take bullets for them.

So today I start my 12th year of sobriety. I started it the same way I started my sobriety on a dismal, friendless and hopeless Sunday morning in 1998.

One Day at a Time.

Nothing to see here...

Rather than reading my usual blather today, go read this instead.

Jake and his DP (domestic partner) are awesome.

I Didn't Make It.

We tried. But my friend, "H", passed away Friday morning. After some last-minute teleconferencing with my friends in New York, we decided to press ahead with our visit and offer what aid and solace we could to "H"'s surviving partner, "S."

Again, we had decided in advance that we would do our utmost to make this weekend not about US and OUR loss, but about our fond (and mostly funny) memories of "H."

Because "H" had an entire different life after 1998 than the one I had known between 1977, when we met in Seattle and 1996 when my life started falling apart and H & S were living in Seattle and had no idea, H had developed a whole new set of friends ... mostly academicians. H had gone and gotten a doctorate while I wasn't looking and was an associate professor of literature at a major state college here in the east.

Believe me, it came as a complete surprise to his "new crowd" that "H" had once operated an adult movie theater in the seamiest part of Seattle.

Or that "H" and I had once recruited another friend of ours, a guy named Ed (who was the trashiest slut we knew) to escort us for our virginal trips to "the baths" in the fall of 1977.

H & I were inseparable buddies in the summer, fall and winter of '77 until I left Seattle to move to New York in March of 1978. It's hard to believe that we managed to squeeze so much life into such a short period of time. But with all the exhuberence and endurance of youth, we did manage it. In those 9 short months we became BFF's. Or so we thought. When the time came to say goodbye, we both dissolved into tears at the thought of being thousands of miles away from each other.

But I did move -- and both of our lives continued and "H" eventually moved to New York a year or so later. By that time I was getting involved with my ex and it was clear to both H and me that our "drinking and disco days" were now a thing of the past.

I wouldn't give up that time we had together for anything. Despite the fact that he was 8 years younger than me, "H" opened my eyes to many things and helped to polish what was still a diamond in the rough (me).

So though I didn't get a chance to tell him goodbye... it doesn't matter. In fact, there is no "goodbye." What I got instead was a rekindling of all kinds of fond memories of my youth that nothing can take away from me. "H" is still very much alive, and still 21, in the only places that matter.... in my memories and in my heart.

I love you, H. I always did and I always will.

-R

Stormy Weather

It's hotter'n hell here in the east. It has been since last Saturday and it shows every intention of staying this way for another day or two.

Up above is a shot of the crowds at Robert Moses State Park, on Long Island, over the weekend.

I had a sort of date Saturday night with a guy in my 12-Step program whom I've been interested in for years (he's taller than me!!) and he's been sober for about 27 years now. However, we had a chaperone, a fellow who is new to the area and was looking for something to do Saturday night, so he invited himself along with us.

We had dinner first and then went to see and hear the New Jersey Gay Men's Chorus perform up north in the state. It was broiling in the church where they were performing. But that didn't matter. They performed with brio, sensitivity and a real feeling for the material. They even managed to find a mezzo to perform with them (a REAL lady). Their rendition of the Habanera from Bizet's "Carmen" was breathtaking and they captured the flavor of a group of [straight] men enthralled by the gypsy cigarette girl who ruins men's lives, Carmen. The melody of the chorus is absolutely haunting and even though I'm not an opera queen, it is one of my favorite arias.

We didn't get home until way past midnight. Not that it mattered. It was still over 80 degrees in central New Jersey at that hour. I cranked up the a/c in my bedroom, and slept under a sheet. And nothing else.

That's the "weather" part of the subject of today's post. The "stormy" part starts now.

I had an e-mail today from an old friend of mine. He informed me that he'd gotten a phone call over the weekend from another friend of ours, "S", informing him that the "S's" lover, "H", a man we've known for many decades, has been sent home from the hospital to die of pancreatic cancer.

My emotions are all over the place. I first met "H" in Seattle in the summer of 1977, right after I broke up with my lover number 2. "H" and I quickly became drinking and disco-dancing buddies and were pretty inseparable every Friday and Saturday nights and Sunday afternoons for the next 9 months or so... until I moved to New York in the spring of 1978.

Eventually "H" moved to New York too where we rekindled our friendship. "H" acquired the boyfriend who called us over the weekend and, in time, we all settled down in various domestic partnerships. Eventually "H" and "S" moved back to Seattle where "H" finished his degrees, eventually getting a doctorate. After that he became a college professor, first in Texas and later in Connecticut.

When I broke up with my partner of 15 years, in the summer and fall of 1994, S&H had long since moved away and, by the time they moved back to the northeast, I was at my bottom in central New Jersey and they, by default, remained friends with my ex.

I have to admit that I've always had a touch of resentment about that, since my ex wouldn't have known any of these people if it hadn't been for me. My ex wasn't terribly lovable and was woefully lacking in certain social skills.

Anyway, that's all water over the dam now. Now my friend is dying and I want him to know that I love him, that even though we haven't been a part of each other's lives for many years now, I have always loved him and I will miss him terribly when he is gone.

Life is short, people. Real short. Go do something you've been meaning to do but have kept putting off. You never know.

10 Years and 2 Days

Saturday night was great.

I belong to a gay 12-Step group in Pennsylvania which was celebrating it's 13th Anniversary Saturday night, the same time I was celebrating my 10th anniversary of sobriety. The group's chairman had invited me to be one of three guest speakers that evening. I asked my sponsor (and his wife) if they'd come to this "eatin' meetin'" and present me with my 10-year medallion there. He said yes. By the way, we call them eatin' meetins' because group anniversaries are traditionally started with a big, sit-down buffet dinner. And when gay people are involved, the food is, of course, FABULOUS!

To be honest, though, I'd been dreading the day for weeks. I was nervous that I'd make a fool of myself in front of 50 or 60 people. (it turned out to be more like 80.)

I needn't have worried. The group chairman made a big fuss over me by announcing from the podium that we had a "special" anniversary that night and then he called me and my sponsor up on the dais. My sponsor made a lovely speech about how I came along just at the right time in HIS recovery, and about how much he liked working with me and being my friend over the last 8 years. He gave me the medallion and a big hug and we went back to our seats.

Seconds later I was called back to the podium, as the first speaker of the evening. I don't remember what I said (the best shares are totally unrehearsed -- or "unpremeditated" as I call them), but whatever it was, it was mostly about love and gratitude with very little emphasis on the old, drinking parts of the story, except for enough to "qualify" as an alcoholic. Although I doubt that anyone would doubt that. Most of my friends have far too much first-hand experience with me to the contrary.

But it was the first time in my memory that I told my story pretty much leaving out all the gory details of my victimhood. Somewhere along the way in sobriety I realized that people had long ago stopped hurting me and that I was only hurting myself. Over and over again. By making bad choices and by opting, continually, for pain over joy.

Anyway, it was a quick speech, probably less than the 15 minutes I was supposed to speak. But I hate speakers who drone on, long after they've run out of things to say (okay, I'll stop typing now).

A number of people came up to me after the meeting to thank me for what I'd said. I was floating around on cloud nine.

But what mattered most Saturday night was that I was surrounded by people who mean the world to me, whether they were there in body, or there in spirit.

You see, I've come to realize that I am loved. And that I am capable of giving a lot of love in return.

My Flaming Valentine...

February 14th. Valentine's Day. Although, when I was a child, if anyone in my fifth grade class was foolish (or forgetful) enough to refer to today as "Valentine's Day" they would've promptly gotten their ears boxed by Sister Joseph Claire who was conducting a one-nun battle against the creeping heathenism in the world, as evidenced by the unsaved hordes attempt to hijack the Feast Day of a Roman Catholic Saint and turn it into something mundane, pedestrian and worst, irreligious, like a day devoted to love and to lovers. When it should be a day spent contemplating Christian pain and martyrdom. God knows, SHE was a martyr and a right royal pain.

Whatever. Like most Catholic theology, though, it's based primarily on a bunch of half-truths, outright lies and a healthy serving of dogmatic horseshit. There were three people whom it might've been based on, spread out over five centuries. But, at the end of the day, who really gives a rat's ass? Even the Church eventually gave up on St. Valentine and dropped him from the calendar in 1969 (along with St. Christopher).

My sister in blogging, Bev, over at Funny The World, blogged today about the childhood pain of not getting any Valentine cards or gifts.

Initially I thought that nobody loved me but, in truth, I didn't want to get any Valentine's Day tokens. In fact, though, I didn't want to GET them because I didn't want to GIVE them.

And why was that? Well, primarily because I knew that even though Robert M***** was probably going to grow up to be either a priest or a hairdresser, he probably wouldn't have appreciated getting a great big smack on the lips from me during recess in the Fifth grade.

Even though he was the CUTEST WIDDLE FING (There. My dirty little secret is out. I had the hots for Robert M***** in the Fifth grade).

Since I could never express my proper feelings towards the real objects of my romantic attractions as a child in Catholic School in the 1950s-60s, I dreaded the approach of this day every year and was glad when it was finally over.

There are some things in life which, having missed experiencing them in one's youth, can never be captured again.

The innocent joy of asking someone to "Be My Valentine" is one of them.

I envy the young lovers of the world.

Suck it up, kids. Nothing lasts forever.

Huggy Kissy Touchie Feelie

Saturday was a very odd day. I was, as usual, overbooked. From 10:00-11:00 a.m. I attended a 12-Step Meeting in Princeton. 11:30-12:00 p.m., I got a haircut in Princeton. From 12:30-3:00 p.m. I helped friends move a 10-ton color tv and matching credenza, from 4:00 -6:00 p.m. I saw a Beatle's Tribute show (which was FABOO) in New Brunswick, from 6:00-6:45 p.m., I tried to get OUT of New Brunswick (Rutgers had kicked Pittsburgh's ass and everybody in the state was in-town to help celebrate), from 6:45-7:50 p.m., I drove like a bat out of hell 65 miles towards Willow Grove, PA, from 8:00-9:15 p.m. I was at another 12-Step meeting, and from 9:45-10:45 p.m., I drove home.

Collapse.

But something very odd happened that evening, at that 2nd meeting. First of all, there was a miracle when somebody I've known since childhood, and whom I'd given up for lost, resurfaced at the meeting. I was very grateful to God for that.

Secondly, and this was the truly bizarre part, some seriously good-looking men in recovery suddenly got very huggy-kissy, touchie-feelie with me after the meeting! Well, three seriously good-looking men. But that's more action than I've had in 20 years, believe me! I don't think it was a full moon. I can't believe these guys magically took a sudden interest in me. I really can't believe they can't do better!

And yes, I really do think that little of me.

Maybe it's because the holidays are coming and everybody is looking to "settle down" for the winter.

Whatever is going on, I hope it doesn't stop anytime soon. I kind of like all of this sudden outpouring of affection for me, no matter what the cause.

Long Week....

I blogged last about taking Tuesday off to see Dr. Pancreas. Then, yesterday, things got hectic at work and I didn't have a chance to post anything. It's all I can do to find some time to scan read my dear friends' blogs, skipping all the bullshit savoring every detail.

I kid, but the fact is, I'd rather read my friends writings than write my own. It's like cooking, I can cook, but thank God I don't have to! Nothing bores me more than sitting down to a meal I've prepared, even though everyone raves about it. Okay, I've seen it, I've tasted it and I'm ready to toss it about the time that we're all sitting down at the table (or I'm mousing on the "Publish Post" button) to eat it (or read it).

Now, however, I find I've gotten a reputation. People are actually starting to read me regularly (God love 'em! They must need professional help.) So now, of course, I feel obliged to post ... and to be witty and charming and full of bon mots and stuff like that there.

But I'm sure there were times when even Noel Coward got tired as shit of being Noel Coward.



Sigh. They don't make queers like they used ta.

Before I wander much farther afield, I'll close with this for today:

The internet has brought me a bounty over the years ... of a few good and dear friends and one or two outright scoundrels.

I'm happy to report that the scoundrels have all scuttled back under the rocks they inhabit and the beloved friends continue to be a part of my life every single day. No matter where they are.

I am truly blessed and grateful to appreciate their love and to be able to give them my love in return.

Have a great weekend! I'm going to see some movies ("Elizabeth", "Rendition" and "Michael Clayton" are on the short-list).

Lunch with the English

I just had lunch with two old friends from London, Steven and John. I reminded them that we met on my first visit to London... in 1981.

They repeatedly expressed a desire for me to come and stay with them in London. I was extremely touched by their kindness. They even bought lunch.

It's funny how we think our friends never age. I could've sworn they look the same today as on the day I met them, many years ago.

They're in New York for just a few days, visiting a lot of our old friends... friends whom I don't keep in very good touch with, I'm afraid. They leave for home tomorrow. Their itinerary wore me out just listening to it. They started out in Cleveland, drove up through Michigan, across to the Upper Peninsula, down through Wisconsin and then to Chicago. On the east coast they've been to D.C., Connecticut and New York.

This is something I love and admire about English gay couples "of a certain age." They are absolutely devoted to each other and wouldn't know what to do with themselves without each other. John and Steve are like that. As were the other English couples I met throughout the years. John & Ken, Nick and Robin and my dearest friend in England, Tom, and his late partner, Beauchamp. Beachie, as they nicknamed him, passed away in 1983 and Tom never repartnered aside from.. well, "cozy relationships with younger men" throughout the years.

The English are nesters.

I wish I'd been one.

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Commuter Update:

Lousy weather wreaks havoc with morning commute in New York. Nudes and leather at 11:00!

I wrote the following e-mail to the general manager of the bus company I am forced to use every day, and copied my state senator and two assemblypeople:

=====================================================================

Dear Mr. XXXXXXXX,

I had the misfortune to be stuck in Academy bus number 8013 on Monday night for the evening commute from PABT in New York to the South Brunswick Park and Ride at Exit 8-A. It was 95 degrees inside the bus according to the red gauge on the dashboard. It was also 95 degrees outside the bus according to the radio.

Please try riding in one of your own buses on a 95 degree day, with no air conditioning, for an hour sometime. Trust me, you won't like it.

Then, this morning, your terminal sent 8013 back out for the 1st Madison Avenue run of the day (Dep: Twin Rivers at 5:40 a.m., Dep: South Brunswick 6:10 a.m.) It barely made it to the Park and Ride before the driver had no choice but to call it in for lack of air conditioning and your terminal had no choice but to send a service mechanic with another bus. He arrived 20 minutes after our scheduled departure time. We arrived at 59th & Madison at 8:15, nearly an later than usual due to the late departure, the usual buildup of weekday traffic on the Turnpike at that later time and the inclement weather.

By all accounts bus number 8013 is poorly maintained. Apparently no one ever actually works on repairing the air conditioning system, they merely recharge it, send it back out and hope for the best.

It's also known that your terminal no longer has a night shift for maintenance. How can you expect to maintain buses when they're on the road all day? You can't. Apparently it’s Academy’s policy to allow the buses to break down before taking action.

Then there’s the matter of the driver. After several mis-starts you've been sending us a very pleasant and polite man to replace our driver of many years, Rxxxxx Jxxxxx who recently retired. The replacement is, no doubt, an excellent charter driver.

But as you know, a good charter driver does necessarily make a good city driver.

Our new driver really needs to "toughen up" in order to deal with the aggressive and pushy taxi and bus drivers of Manhattan. Unfortunately, your man tends to "roll over and play dead" in city traffic, rather than tackling it the way Mr. Jxxxxx used to tackle it.

Your driver's curb-hugging timidity adds significantly to the time needed for the city portion of the morning commute.

It’s unreasonable to expect Mr. Jxxxx to come out of retirement for our benefit, but in exchange for the 4,140 post-tax dollars I give your Company every year in exchange for a lift to and from work, I do expect for you to 1) send us buses which have functioning air conditioning, b) send them on time and c) toughen up your drivers a little for city traffic.

Thank you for listening.

Very truly yours,