two stories (close enough to nine)

To anyone who thinks my semi-obsession with soccer is silly, pointless like any man's sports addiction (not that anyone has probably ever given it a moment's thought), I say to you: heed this anecdote.

I'm in northern California in a city called Salinas, at a motel called the Economy Inn. Down the road a few blocks is a diner called Norma's. I chained my bike up under the green awning and sat myself inside at the bar. This city is predominantly Spanish-speaking people. I walked in looking about as white or more that a 27 year old male can look. Plaid shirt, khaki shorts, white shoes. Glasses. My dumb face... I ordered some food and then asked the rather handsome waiter if he would mind turning on the soccer match for me. He obliged. Then he smiled with perfect teeth and said, "You surprised me. I didn't know you liked soccer." He had seen me the night before, in the same diner, looking nerdy and white at that time too. His smile was sweet and genuine. He then went on to tell me how much he loved the sport, and how he had attended the World Cup in Germany in 2006. He shared his memories of the matches he watched. He told me how he used to play but hadn't for a while now. Then we talked about John Steinbeck, and why I was visiting Salinas. A stranger with whom I would seemingly have nothing in common received a momentary joyful surprise today. I felt good when he said that, because it meant that I had contributed something to Tuesday, April 29th, 2014. That is part of the reason I love the sport. It is a connection, and those are in frighteningly short supply in this day and age.

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Moving on, but staying put... Currently, I am in a city called Salinas. The name is jarring for all sorts of reasons, but that's not the point of this story. Fourteen years ago when I was thirteen I made my mother take me to the public library in Lincoln, Nebraska, my hometown. At a certain point just before my teenage years began I decided that I wanted to be a reader. I was a shy and nervous child, and I was searching for a label. "Reader" seemed to be the one for me. It is not a habit I acquired from anyone in my life. At that point, I had never met anyone who had read anything other than the Bible, pretty much. Except my grandmother, who spends her time with Harlequin romance novels. So there I am in the dingy downtown public library of Lincoln, Nebraska and I ask my mother if she knows of any good books to recommend. Now, the thing that binds my family together is our sense of humor. We all have very similar senses of humor, and when we are together the most that we do is laugh. I have almost never heard a valuable book, music or movie suggestion from anyone in my family, because I do not have tastes remotely near to them. If my mom were to suggest a book, it would be some religious fiction novel about the rapture. My sister may be the only person in the world who has received a Master's degree without ever finishing an entire book, and my brother wrote at least 3 consecutive book reports in 3 consecutive grades on the exact same book (which he never actually read).
But there I am, 13 years old on a mission, asking my mother if she knew of any good books. She gave me two suggestions. The first was a book called Flowers For Algernon, which I still have not read, though I should. And the second suggestion was Of Mice And Men by John Steinbeck. She said she read it in school and though she didn't really remember it she remembered it was good.
God knows why it rang in my head. This is literally the only book suggestion I have ever taken from my mother.
So I checked out Of Mice And Men. I took it home that spring weekend day, and I read it through in its entirety while sitting in our floral armchair. It remains to this day the only book I couldn't physically "put down". Except maybe Down And Out In Paris And London by George Orwell but that's only because I wasn't able to sleep while staying overnight in Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris, France.
Anyway, Of Mice And Men basically shattered my brain. Its complex understanding of human nature made me feel like I'd bumped into a soul mate on the street. The ending tore me. Not only did he make me feel for people, but he made me feel for people who didn't even exist. He made me feel for what people are like. I didn't have many friends, and no one close, but Steinbeck became my best friend for years to come. I've read all of his books and so many have reached deep into my heart. A consummate American and writer whom my feeble words cannot give proper credit to.
So I'm in Salinas, California. The city where Steinbeck was born and the land where many of his books are set. The city bears the name of another person who changed me for the better, in most ways. A person, at least, who taught me many things and opened parts of myself that I didn't know I had. A person who made me feel stronger and more truly connected to everyone and everything.
Today and yesterday I rode my bicycle through the city of this man, adding an apostrophe in my head to everything that said "Salinas". I'll never be the writer that he was, or that any of my heros were. I want to be a man, bold and confident that can lay the world's truth down in words on paper and help others. But more than that, I want to have a best friend and lover by my side so I can live out all the goodness and the fulfillment that my favorite writers speak of. I'm like a romantic Sisyphus, cursed to only write of love for all eternity without ever experiencing it. To that I say: you can have your words, man! Give me love or give me death.

Words aren't enough to keep me here, but I thank god I had Steinbeck and a few others to help me see and experience people, because people aren't that easy to experience.

This is the longest blog post I've ever made, and for that I apologize.

The other day I thanked my mother for suggesting Of Mice And Men to me that day. She has no idea she saved my life, in a certain way, dear woman.