“Weirdos in the Night” or “Dr. Spock, I Presume?”

The event I’m about to relate to you took place about two years ago. But it puzzles me to this very day, so I felt it was worth sharing.

One very cold Friday night (it was January, I think), Brian was out of town, Logan and Heidee were already off at college, and Benjamin was spending the night at a friend’s house. Timmy was a free man! Those of you who don’t have kids or some other person(s) that are in your care don’t really know what a rare treat that is. Now, there have been times when opportunities such as this were staring me right in the face, and I was too damn tired to take advantage. But not this night. Look out, Columbus. Here comes TCole!

Went out to this bar we had been to once or twice. Nice space, but it seemed to be dying. (and in fact, did die just a few months later) I ordered a drink and wandered around, looking for familiar faces. I spotted one (and only one) which did look vaguely familiar. But I had to be eye-to-eye with him before I realized who it actually was.

I have a friend who’s originally from Columbus, but who moved to New York after college. This guy’s best friend still lives here in Cowtown, and the two of them are like brothers from a different mother. The friend who still lives here in C-bus has never been especially warm to me. But he was always cordial; never rude or mean or anything like that.

So we’re in this bar, about two feet apart, and we both finally realize who the other is. He says, “Oh, you’re that guy who has the kids, aren’t you?” He doesn’t say, “Oh, you’re Tim…” He says, “Oh you’re that guy who has the kids…” That right there should have been a sign to me that something was up. But call me naive; call me overly eager to connect with SOMEONE, ANYONE I knew on my rare night out. I invite the guy to sit down at a table and chat.

What occurred over the next 45-to-60 minutes was the most bizarre, surreal, out-of-left-field (my kids would say “random”) conversation I think I’ve ever been a part of. As soon as we sit down and finish exchanging some pleasantries, this guy takes aim at me like a pirate ship firing on an enemy vessel, cannons belching at my broadsides. He immediately tells me what a horrible, pathetic, deplorable excuse for a pseudo-parent I was for being out in a bar when I should be at home, saving those poor children from starvation/rape/disease/fire/aliens/Bible beaters/etc./etc./etc. It was unTHINKable that I could leave the house with those babies unprotected at home. I had no right to even consider a social life of my own–not now, not tomorrow, not EVER, from what I could gather.

Now, in my 15-plus years as a stepparent, I’ve met my share of people (most of them well-intentioned) who feel the need to share their child-rearing wisdom with me. One of my exes literally couldn’t help himself when it came to dispensing parenting advice–to the point where I had to put our friendship on hold for a time. One of our best friends continues to share his expertise with us, although he hands it out with a light-hearted, “and of course you know I’m an expert in these matters.”

But here I was, sitting with this guy I barely knew–a guy who couldn’t even remember my fucking NAME–who felt not just comfortable, but COMPELLED to berate me for stepping foot outside my house. This wasn’t the friendly advice of a member of our inner circle. This was a goddam SERMON from an asshole I barely knew. And you know what? I actually engaged him. As I mentioned before, I actually had to put some distance between my ex and me until he could learn to keep his opinions about my kids to himself. But I let this near-stranger have his word, and I’m not entirely sure why.

Mind you, I didn’t sit there silently. I pushed and rebutted and made him defend his points. But the fact that I even gave him the opportunity to criticize (nay, vilify) me still strikes me as odd–almost as odd as the fact that he was criticizing me in the first place. And let me take a step back here and give you some more details of his criticism. Never was there an attempt on his part to gain understanding of my situation, either short- or long-term. No attempt to walk a mile in my shoes. Not once did he say (even in the early, semi-friendly moments), “So, what are your kids up to tonight?” He just launched right in to me for being out. Period. When I attempted to explain that we weren’t talking about helpless little babies in diapers here, but teenagers who were all either off at college or spending the night at a friend’s, you know what I got in response? “Doesn’t matter.” Seriously. Doesn’t matter. I should be at home, waiting for that inevitable 911 call.

And at what point, I asked him, could Brian and I expect to be released from the shackles tying us to our children’s cribs? At what point would they finally be old enough, responsible enough, independent enough, adult enough that we could venture out into the that great, big world called “self”?

Never.

Never?

Never.

“So,” I asked him. “Where are YOUR parents right now?” Are they at home, waiting for that phone to ring?

“Damn right they are. Aren’t yours?”

As I mentioned, this was January, so my response to his question about my parents was, “No, they’re spending the winter in Florida, like they always do.”

“But, they’re sitting AT HOME in Florida, where they could be reached.”

“I don’t know that,” I said. “For all I know, they’re out attending some drunken, drugged-up orgy. You know, kinda like one of those wild 70′s parties where the men toss their car keys in a big bowl when they walk in, and the pills are passed around in serving trays.”

That really set him off. How dare I say such horrible things about my parents? What gave me the right to make such horrible accusations? My response, “Who says they’re so horrible? If they’re getting high and getting laid at 70, more power to ‘em.”

BOOM!

“DAMMIT, you can’t talk like that about the people who RAISED you!” (his voice raised to an attention-gathering level at this point)

“What they do on their own time is THEIR business, and not mine.” (my voice only slightly raised, and even then, only to prove that I’m ready to stand toe-to-toe with him) “They’re people with LIVES, for God’s sake. Not just parents who live for nothing but their kids.”

By now, this fucker is livid, and is unable to push his point any further in any sort of intelligent manner. So naturally, I launch my counter-attack. I hit him from several angles at once, and refused to allow him to refute one point before firing at him with another. “How drunk are you?” “Or are you high? What are you on?” “Do you have some weird Oedipus complex going on?” “Did your parents sexually abuse you?” “Are you really so ashamed of the self-centered, hedonistic life you lead that you think the ONLY way to be a decent person is to give up your own life and focus solely on another?”

I hit him so hard and so fast that his only rebuttal was to turn the conversation “normal” again, by reverting to the type of chit-chat that most people would have engaged in in the first place. He talked about our mutual friend, (and BEGGED me never to tell him about this conversation) vacations, work, whatever. I’m not normally the type that gets pleasure out of making someone uncomfortable. But this guy got what was coming to him. Because I never would let the conversation get completely away from the who child-rearing topic, he finally announced (in a huff) that he was leaving. I flashed him a brilliant smile and said, “Have a great night.”

I always admire the way Jon Stewart of “The Daily Show” can have a guest like Mike Huckabee on his show, rip the guy’s points to shreds, prove his adversary to be just shy of idiotic, and still shake the guy’s hand and say “thanks for coming”. I think I was in that Jon Stewart zone on that particular night. So I guess that answers why I chose to engage this guy and not kick him to the curb right away. But that still doesn’t answer why he chose to launch in to that tirade. Almost makes me want to bump into him again. Too bad I have to work tomorrow…